'IiN      SPRING,      SHE      GATHERED     BLOSSOMS     FOR     THE     STILL.' 

—Page  29. 


The  Laureates 

of  England 
ffrom  :©en  Joneon  to  BlfreD  GenitESon 


WITH    SELECTIONS     FROM     THEIR    WORKS    AND     AN     INTRODUCTION 

DEALING   WITH   THE   ORIGIN   AND   SIGNIFICANCE   OF 

THE    ENGLISH    LAUREATESHIP 


Kenyon  West 


VIGNETTE  EDITION.     WITH  NUMEROUS  NEW 
ILLUSTRATIONS 


Frederick  C.  Gordon 


1 


Hew  lord  an&  aLon&on 
FREDERICK    A.    STOKES    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copsrfgbt,  1895,  by 
ffreoedcfe  B.  Stohes  Company, 


Printed  in  America. 


■ 


These  brief  sketches  of  the 

POETS  LAUREATE  OF  ENGLAND 

are  dedicated,  by  permission,  to 

EDMUND   CLARENCE  STEDMAN0 


M4TC63 


CONTENTS. 


<  PAGE 

Prefatory  Note xi 


Imtroduction,    .        .      •  .        .         .  xiii 


t  Hen  Jonson,        .        .  V     .        •  i 

Selections  from  Jonson  : 

To  Celia, 6 

On  Truth, 6 

Happiness, 7 

Lines  from  "  The  Sad  Shepherd,"         7 
Life  and  Death,        .         .         .         ."7 

The  Pleasure  of  Heaven,         .         .       7 
Fantasy,    .         .         ...         .         .8 

A  Vision  of  Beauty,         ...       8 

Truth, q 

Epitaph  on  My  First  Daughter,     .       9 
Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H.,  .         .     10 
Epitaph  on  Master  Philip  Gray,    .     10 
Epitaph  on  Margaret  Ratcliffe,       .     10 
Song,  .         .         .         .         .         .11 

Fame,        .         .         .         .         .         .11 

Ode  to  Himself,        .         .         .         .     11 

"Chivalry, 12 

Song, 12 

"Translation   of  Cowley's    Epigram 

on  Francis  Drake,  .         .         .12 

Nature,  12 

Echo's  Lament  of  Narcissus,  .     13 

To    the    Memory   of    My    Beloved 

Master,    William     Shakespeare, 

and  What  He  Hath  Left  Us, 
Hymn  to  Diana, 
The  True  Growth, 
Chans'  Triumph,     . 
Song,         ..... 
A  Fragment,     .... 
On  the  Portrait  of  Shakespeare 

1623,       

Lines  from  "  Catiline,"    . 
Jealousy,  .... 

Begging  Epistle  to  the  Chancellor 

of  the  Exchequer, 
Stray  Thoughts  from  Jonson, 

Sir  William  Davenant, 
Selections  from  Davenant^ 

^   To  the  Queen,           .         .         .  .24 

Song, 24 

Prayer  and  Praise,             .         .  .25 

On  a  Soldier  Going  to  the  Wars,  .     25 

Weep  no  More  for  What  is  Past,  .     26 


Cursed  Jealousy, 

On  the  Captivity  of  the  Countess 
of  Anglesey, 

Ballad, 

Platonic  Lovers, 
Stray  Selections  from  Davenant, 
Conscience,        .... 
Character  and  Love  of  Birtha, 


PAGE 

26 


13 
15 
16 
16 


John  Dryden, 31 

Selections  from  Dryden  : 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687,     .     35 
Alexander's    Feast  :    or,  the  Power 

of  Music,  an  Ode  in^Honour  of 

St.    Cecilia's     Day,     November, 

1697,       .         .         .         > 
Selection  from  "  Eleonora 
Veni  Creator  Spiritus, 
Selection, 
Limit  of  Fate, 

The  Old  Age  of  the  Temperai 
Human  Life,    . 
The  Infant, 
Beauty  and  Youth, 
Selection, 

Reason  and  Religion, 
A  Simile, 

Men 

The  Unity  of  the  Catholic  CI 
From  "  Rival  Ladies,"    . 
"  Ah,  How  Sweet," 
Under  Mr.  Milton's  Picture  1 

his   Paradise  Lost, 
Song,  .... 

Tradition, 
Selections     from     "Absalom 

Achitophel," 
Shad      ' 


urch 


efore 


Stray  Lines  from  Dryden, 

Thomas  Shadwell,  . 

Selections  from  Shadwell 

Ode    on    the    Anniversary   of     the 

King's  Birth,         .         !* 
Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day, 
From  "  The  Innocent  Impostors," 
On  Dryden's  Heroic  Tragedies, 
Satirical  Bines  on  Dryden, 
On  Ben  Jonson, 
On  Ben  Jonson, 


46 
46 

46 
47 
47 

)47 

40 
40 


53 
59 
59 
60 
60 


Contents* 


Nahum  Tate,     .... 
Selections  from  Tate  : 

Charles  II 

On  the  Death  of  Queen  Mary  II. 

Chorus  from  "  The  Ode  for  the  Year 


fage 
.    61 


1705 

The  Tea  Table, 

On  the  "Spectator," 

From  "  The  Loyal  General," 

Song,  "  Damon's  Melancholy," 

Eclogue  of  Virgil,     . 

The  Tear, 

The  Upright  Man, 

The  Birth  of  Christ, 

Hymn,       .... 

Psalm  XLII,    . 

From  "  Psalm  XCV,"       . 

From  "  Psalm  C,"     . 

From  "  Psalm  CIV," 

Selections  from  Psalms,  . 

Selection  from  "An  Essay  for  Pro 

moling  Psalmody," 

Nicholas  Rowe, 
Selections  from  Rowe  : 

Ode  for  the  New  Year,  1717,  . 

Colin's  Complaint, 

Song, 

Ulysses, ' 

To  Mrs.  A.  D.,  While  Singing, 

On  Mr.  Bayes'    Dramatic    Pieces, 

Selection,  ..... 

Stray   Selections  from    "  The   Fair 
Penitent," 

Stray  Selections  from  "  Lady  Jane 
Grey," 

Penitence  and  Death  of  Jane  Shore 

Lawrence  Eusden,    .... 
Selections  from  Eusden  : 

A  Poem  on  the  Happy  Succession 
and    Coronation    of    His    Present 
Majesty,  King  George  II.,  . 
George  II.,        .         .         . 
The  Courtier.     A  Fable, 

To  Mr. ,        .        .        .     . 

On    The    Spectator's  Critique    on 

Milton, 

To  the  Reverend  Dr.  Bentley, 
Medea,  Act  IV.    Last  Chorus, 


90 
90 
91 

92 
92 

94 

COLLEY  ClBBER,  .  .  .  .95 

Selections  from  Cihrer  : 

An    Ode    to  His    Majesty   for   the 

New  Year,  1730-31,       .         .         .99 
Cibber's  Ironical   Lines  on  Himself  100 

The  Blind  Boy 101 

From  "  She  Wou'd  and  She  Wou'd 
^  Not,"     ......  101 

From  "  Woman's  Wit,"  .         .         .  101 
From  "  Love's  Last  Shift,"     .        .  101 


PAGE 

From  "  The  Rival  Fools,"  .  .   102 

From  "  Caesar  in  Egypt,"  .  .   102 

From  "  Richard  III.,"    .  .  .  102 

From  "  King  John,"       .  .  .   103 

From  "  King  John,"         .  .  .  103 

William  Whitehead,        .        .        .  107 
Selections  from  Whitehead  : 

The  Laureate,  .         .         .         .111 

From  "  A  Charge  to  the  Poets,"  .  111 
Ode  for  the  New  Year,  1761,  .  .  xix 
Ode   for  His   Majesty's    Birthday, 

June  4,  1765,  ....  112 

The  Je  Ne  Scai  Quoi,  .  .  .  113 
The  Double  Conquest,  .  .  .  113 
On  the  Birthday  of  a  Young  Lady 

Four  Years  Old,  .  .  .  .  114 
The  Enthusiast,  ....  114 
Lines  to  Garrick,  ....  116 
On  One  of  his  Lampooners,  .  .  117 
Selections     from      "  The     Roman        ~~" 

Father,"         .         .         .         .         .  117 
Selections  from  "  Lines  to  the  Hon- 
ourable Charles  Townsend,"        .  118 
To  Lady  Nuneham,  on  the  Death 
of    Her   Sister^    the    Honourable 
Catharine       Venables      Vernon, 
June,  MDCCLXXV,            .         .118 
Variety, 119 

Thomas  Warton,       ....  123 
Selections  from  Warton  : 

On  His  Majesty's  Birthday,  June 

4-  1787 127 

Selection  from  "  Ode   on  His  Maj-     -— < 

esty's  Birthday,  June  4,  1788,"  .  128 
Selections  from  "  The  Pleasures  of 
Melancholy,"         ....  129 

Oxford, 131 

Selections  from  "  The  Hamlet,"     .  133 

Retirement, 134 

To  Sleep, 134 

From  "  Euripides,"  .         .         -135 

Selection    from     "  The     First     of 

April," 135 

Sleep 136 

Monody, 136 

Selections  from  the  Sonnets  : 
I.  On  Revisiting  the  River  Lodon,  137 
II.  Written     at    Winslade,   Hamp- 
shire, .....  137 
III.  Written  in  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Dug- 
dale's  "  Monasticon,"      .         .  138 
IV.  Written  at  Stonehenge,       .         .  138 
V.  Written     after     Seeing     Wilton 

House 139 

VI.  On  Summer,         ....  139 

Henry  James  Pye 140 

Selections  from  Pye  : 

Ode  for  the  New  Year,  1791,  .         .   144 


X 


Contents* 


i 


PAGE 

Selection   from   "  The  Ode  for  the 

King's  Birthday,  1792,"        .         .  146 
Selection  from  "  The    Ode  for  the 

New  Year,  1797,"  .         .         .   146 

Birthday   Ode   for   the  Year  1800,  147 
Selection     from     "  Naucratia,     or 
Naval  Dominion,"        .        .        .  147 

Shooting, 148 

From  "  Alfred,"       ....  148 

Robert  Southey,      .        .        .        .151 
Selections  from  Southey  : 

Selection  from  "Carmen  Trium- 
phale,"  ...... 

Selections  from  "  Ode  written  dur- 
ing the  Negociations  with  Buona- 
parte, in  January,  1814,"     .  .   157 

Selections  from  "  Funeral  Song,"  .  159 

Selections  from  "  Ode  Written  Dur- 
ing the  War  with  America,"  1814,  162 

The  Spanish  Armada,     .         .         .  163 

Remembrance, 

Roderick  in  Battle, 

The  Curse, 

The  Swerga,     . 

From  "  Kehama,"  . 

From  "  Kehama,"    . 

From  "  Thalaba,"    . 

From  "Madoc," 

The  Source  of  the  Ganges 

The  Sea,   .... 

Impulse,    .... 

Freedom  of  the  Will, 

The  Ebb-Tide, 

The  Dead  Friend,    . 

Inscription,        ... 

From  "  The  Rose," 

The  Traveller's  Return, 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts  and 
He  Gained  Them, 

From  "  The  Devil's  Walk 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim, 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore, 

The  Inchcape  Rock, 

Stanzas  Written  in  my  Library, 

Epitaph,    . 

To  Mary  Wolstonecraft 


57 


.  164 
.  166 
.  167 
.  167 
.  169 
.  169 
.  170 
.  170 
.  170 
.  171 


How 


171 
171 
172 
i73 
i74 
i74 

i75 

*75 
t76 
177 
179 
182 


•  185 


Selections  from,  the  Sonnets  : 

I.  "  Fair  is  the  Rising  Morn,"        .  185 
II.  "  How  Darkly  o'er  Yon  Far-off 

Mountain,"    .         .         .         .186 

III.  "O  Thou  Sweet  Lark!"    .         .186 

IV.  "  Thou  Lingerest,  Spring,"       .  186 
V.  "  As  Thus  I  Stand,"   .         .        .187 

Sonnet  to  the  Evening  Rainbow,  .   187 

William  Wordsworth,    .        .        .  188 
Selections  from  Wordsworth  : 
The  Poet  Laureate,           .         .         .  193 
The  Poet, 193 


page 
Self-Portraiture  : 

I.  From  "  Poet's  Epitaph."    ,  .  194 

II.  "  How  Pure  His  Spirit,"     .  .  195 

III.  "  For  I  Would  Walk  Alone,"  .  195 

IV.  "  There  Was  a  Boy,"           .  .  195 
V.       Personal  Talk,           .         .  .  196 

Poems  Relating  to  Wordsworth' 's  Mis- 
sion, the  Growth   of  His  Mind,   the 
Subjects  of  His  Verse  : 
I.  "  Fair  Seed-time  Had  my  Soul,"  197 
II.  **  For  the   Man,  Who  in  this 

Spirit,"         ....   199 

III.  "  Ye  Presences  of  Nature,"     .  200 

IV.  "  On  Man,  on  Nature,"  .         .  201 
V.  "  Here  Might  I  Pause,"  .         .203 

VI.  "  The    Hemisphere   of   Magic 

Fiction,"     ....  203 
VII.  "  Thus    From    a   Very   Early 

Age,"  .         .         .         .204 

VIII.  First     Perception    of   Words- 
worth's Mission,  .         .  204 
IX.  "  What  Want  We?"        .         .  204 
'   X.  "  (I    Have)    Sate   Among  the 

Woods,         ....  205 
XL  "  (I)  Would  Speak,"        .        .  206 
XII.  "  I     Felt    What    Independent 

Solaces,"      ....  206 

XIII.  "Call  Ye  These  Appearances,"  207 

XIV.  "  Were  I  Grossly  Destitute,"  .  207 
XV.  "  What  we  Have  Loved,"  .     .  208 

The  Lucy  Poems  : 
I.  "  Strange  Fits  of  Passion,"         .  208 
II.  "  She   Dwelt   Among    the   Un- 
trodden Ways,"      .         .         .  209 
III.  "  I  Travelled  Among  Unknown 

Men,"     .....  209 
IV.  "  Three  Years  She  Grew,"  .  210 

V.  "  A  Slumber,"     ....  211 

Some  Poems  Relating  to  Mrs.  Words- 
worth : 

I.  "  A  Farewell," 211 

II.  "She   was   a   Phantom    of   De- 
light,"      213 

III.  "  Thereafter  Came  One,"  .         .  214 

IV.  "  By  Her  Exulting  Outside  Look 

of  Youth,"      ....  214 
V.  "  O  Dearer  Far,"         .         .         .  214 

Some  Poems  Relating  to  Dorothy 
Wordsivorth  : 


I. 

Choice  of  the  Home 
mere, 

at 

Gras 

21s 

II. 

"  Mine  Eyes  Did  Ne 

er. 

" 

215 

III. 

"  Child  of  My  Paren 

216 

IV. 

From  "  The  Sparrow 

's 

Mest,' 

216 

V. 

"  I  was  Blest," 

217 

VI. 

"Such  Thraldom," 

217 

VII. 

/in. 

To  my  Sister,    . 
To  a  Butterfly, 

217 
218 

IX. 

To  a  Butterfly, 

21Q 

X. 

Nutting,    . 

219 

Contents. 


PAGE 

Lines     Composed     a     Few     Miles 

Above  Tintern  Abbey,          .         .221 
Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality,  224 
Composed    upon     an     Evening    of 
Extraordinary     Splendour      and 
Beauty, 230 

From  "  The  Excursion" : 
I.  Description  of  Mist  Opening  in 

the  Hills,    .         .         .         .  232 

II    The  Soul's  Perception,        .         .  233 

III.  Power  of  the  Soul,        .         .         .  234 

Stray  Lines  from  "The  Excursion,"  235 

Character  of  the  Happy    Warrior,  236 

Ode  to  Duty, 238 

Elegiac  Stanzas,       ....  240 
Lines  Composed  at  Grasmere,        .  241 


Selections  front  The  Sonnets  : 
I.  "  Scorn  Not  the  Sonnet,"  . 
II.  "  Great   Men    Have  Been 
Among  Us,"    . 

III.  "  It  Is  Not  to  be  Thought 

of."  .         .         ... 

IV.  Composed  by  the  Sea-side, 

Near     Calais,     August, 
1802,      .  . 

V.  September,  1802, 
VI.  Written   in    London,   Sep- 
tember, 1802,    . 
VII.  London,  1802, 
VIII.  "  England  !  The   Time  is 
Come,"    .... 
IX.  Thought  of  a  Briton,  on  the 
Subjugation  of  Switzer- 
land, .... 
X.  ToTouissant  L'Ouverture, 
XL  To  B.  R.  Haydon,      . 
XII.  "  The  World  is  too  Much 
with  Us,"         .         .         . 

XIII.  Composed  upon  Westmin- 

ster Bridge, 

XIV.  "  It  is  a  Beauteous  Even- 

ing,"        .         .         .         . 
XV.  "  The    Shepherd    Looking 
Eastward," 
XVI.  To  the  Supreme  Being, 
XVII.  "Most  Sweet  It  Is," 
XVIII.  "  Where  Lies  the  Land,"  . 
XIX.  "Her  Only  Pilot,"     . 

XX.  To  Sleep 

XXI.  "  I  Watch,  and  Long  Have 

Watched," 
XXII.  Mutability,  .         .         . 

XXIII.  Inside   of    King's   College 

Chapel,  Cambridge, 
XXIV.  The  Same, 
XXV.  The  Same,  ... 

XXVI.  After-thought,    . 
XXVII.  The  Trossachs,  . 
XXVIII.  Highland  Hut,   . 
XXIX.  On   the   Departure  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott    from   Ab- 
botsford  for  Naples, 


Written  in  March,    . 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring, 

From  "  Ode  to  Lycoris," 

Yew-Trees 

Airey  Force  Valley, 

The  Echo,         .... 

The  Nightingale  and  the  Dove, 

To  the  Cuckoo, 

To  a  Skylark,  .... 

To  the  Skylark, 

The  Green  Linnet, 

To  the  Daisy,  .... 

"  So  Fair,  So  Sweet," 

To  the  Small  Celandine, 

To  the  Same  Flower, 

Daffodils,  .... 


•  254 
.  255 

•  255 
.  256 

•  257 
.  258 
.  258 
.  259 
.  260 
.  260 
.  261 
.  262 
.  264 
.  265 

266 

•  267 


245 
246 
246 


Some  Ballads,  Narratives  and  Pas- 
torals : 

I.  Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham 

Castle, 268 

II.  Hart-Leap  Well,      .        .        .272 

III.  Power  of  Music,       .         .         .  277 

IV.  Resolution  and  Independence,  278 
V.  The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,    .  281 

VI.  We  are  Seven,  .         .         .  282 

VII.  Anecdote  for  Fathers,      .         .  284 

VIII.  Lucy  Gray  ;  or,  Solitude,        .  286 

IX.  The  Two  April  Mornings,       .  287 

X.  The  Fountain,  .        .        .  289 

XI .  The  Affliction  of  Margaret,     .  291 

XII.  Michael, 293 

Laodamia, 304 

From  "Memorials  of  Scotland" : 

I.  Stepping  Westward,         ,         .  308 
II.  To  a  Highland  Girl,  .         .  309 

III.  The  Solitary  Reaper,        .         .   311 

IV.  Glen-Almain  ;    or,  the  Narrow 

Glen  .....  312 
V.  At  the  Grave  of  Burns,  1803,  313 
3*5 
317 
3>8 
321 

324 
325 
325 


VI.  Thoughts, 
VII.  Yarrow  Unvisited,  . 
VIII.  Yarrow  Visited, 
IX.  Yarrow  Revisited,    . 
Memories  of  Departed  Friends, 
Memories  of  Cambridge, 
To  Hartley  Coleridge,     . 

Evening  Voluntaries  : 

I.  "  Calm  Is  the  Fragrant  Air,"     .  326 
II.  On  a  High  Part  of  the  Coast  of 

Cumberland,     ....  327 

III.  "  Not  in  the  Lucid  Intervals,     .  328 

Devotional  Incitements,  .        .  328 

Inscriptions  ; 

I.  "  Hopes,  What  Are  They  ?  "     .  330 
II.  "  Hast  Thou  Seen,"   .        .        .  331 

III.  "  Troubled  Long,"      .         .         .  332 

IV.  "  Not  Seldom,"   ....  332 


Contents. 


Stray  Selections: 

1.  To  a  Child,       .         .         .         -333 
II.  "My  Heart  Leaps  Up,"  .  333 

III.  To  a  Young  Lady,  .         .  333 

IV.  From   "  The  Tabies  Turned,      334 
V.  From       '*  Expostulation     and 

Reply,"         .         .         •         -334 

VI.  To  Lady  Fleming,   .         .         -335 

VII.   Song  for  the  Spinning  Wheel,  335 

VIII.  A  Night  Piece,         .         .         .336 

IX.  The  Moon,        ....  336 

X.  The  Echo 337 

Stray  Lines  from  Different  Poems,  337 
Stray   Beauties    from    "  The    Pre- 
lude,"     •   344 

Selection  from  "  The  Ode  on  Prince 
Albert,'1 348 

•   349 


Alfred  Tennyson, 
Selections  from  Tennyson  : 

To  the  Queen, 

The  Poet,  .... 

Poland,      . 

From  "  The  Two  Voices," 

The  Miller's  Danghter,  . 

The  Palace  of  Art,  . 

The  Lotos-Eaters,  .         . 

From  "  Lines  to  J.  S.." 

From  "Love  Thou  Thy  Land," 

Love  and  Duty, 

Ulysses,    ..... 

Locksley  Hall, 

St.  Agnes'  Eve, 

Sir   Launcelot  and    Queen  Guine 

vere, 

The  Eagle 

"  Come  Not  When  I  Am  Dead," 
*'  Move   Eastward," 
14  Break,  Break,   Break," 
Selection  from  "  The  Princess," 

Songs  from  the   "  Princess" 

I.  "  As  Through  the  Land," 
II.   "  Sweet  and  Low,"  ... 

III.  "  The  Splendour    Falls," 

IV.  "Tears,  Idle  Tears," 
V.   "  O  Swallow,  Swallow." 

VI.  *'  Thy  Voice  is  Heard," 
VII.   "Home    they    Brought    Hei 
Warrior,"      ... 
VIII.   "  Ask  Me  no  More," 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  o 

Wellington,  .... 
The  Higher  Pantheism, 
"  Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall," 


337 


"  One  Writes," 

"  Dark  House," 

"  A  Happy  Lover,"   . 

"  Fair  bhip," 

"  1  Hear  the  Noise," 

"Calm  is  the  Morn," 

"The   Danube," 

"And  Was  the  Day," 

"  My  Own  Dim  Lite," 

"Could  We  Forget." 

"  Do  We  Indeed  Desire,' 

"  Oh  Yet  We  Trust," 

"The  Wish,"     . 

"  Tho'  it  an  Eye."     . 

"  Dost  Thou  Look  Back 

"  How  Pure  at  Heart," 

"  You  Say," 

"  I  Will  Not  Shut  Me  from 

My  Kind,"      . 
"  'Tis  Held  that  Sorrow, 
"  Who   Loves  not  Know 

edge,"      .         . 
"  Now  Fades," 
"Is  It,  then,  Regret,''' 
"That  Which  We  Dare  It 

voke," 
"O  Living  Will,"       . 


402 
403 
403 

404 
405 
405 
406 
406 
407 
408 
408 
409 
409 
410 
410 


Selections  from  "  In  Memoriam  ".• 

"  Strong  Son  of  God,"     .         .         .  399 
I.  "I  Held  it  Truth,"  .         .  400 

IV.  "  To  Sleep  I  Give  my  Powers,"  400 
V.  "  I  Sometimes  Hold  it  Half  a 

Sin,"       .....  401 


VI. 

VII. 

Vlll. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XIX. 

XXIV. 

XXXIV. 

XL. 

u. 

LIV. 
LV. 
LXII. 
LXIV. 
XC1V. 
XCVI. 
CVI1I. 

CXIII. 
CX1V, 

cxv. 

CXVI. 
CXXIV. 

CXXX1 

Stray  Lines  from  "  In  Memoriam,"  415 

Selections  Jrom  "  Maud'  : 

"  We  are  Puppets,"  .         .         .  417 

"  A  Voice  by  the  Cedar  Tree,"       .  417 
"Whom      but     Maud      Should     I 

Meet," 413 

"  Birds  in  the  High   Hall-garden,"  419 

"  Go  not,  Happy  Day,"  .         .  419 

"  T  Have  Led  Her  Home,"     .         .  420 

I.   "Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud,"  420 

Selections  from  "  Idylls  of  the  King"  : 

I.  Dedication,        ....  423 
II.  Songs  from  "  Gareth  and  Lyn- 

ette." 424 

III.  Selection      from     "  Enid    and 

Geraint,"        ....  425 

IV.  Stray  Lines    from  "  Enid    and 

Geraint,"       ....  426 
V.   Song      from        "  Merlin       and 

Vivien,"         ....  427 
VI.  Song     from     "  Lancelot     and 

Elaine,"         .         .  .   427 

VII.  Stray    Lines    from    'k  Lancelot 

and  Elaine,"  .         .         .   428 

VIII.   Songs  from  "The  Last  Tourna- 
ment," ....   428 
IX.   Song  from  "Guinevere,"  .   428 
X.  The  Farewell  of  Arthur,  .         .   429 
To  Alfred  Tennyson,       .         .         .   433 

Rizpah, 433 

Dedicator}'  Poem    to   the    Princess 

Alice, 437 

De  Profundis,  ....  438 

Songs  from  "  The  Ancient  Sage,"    430 


Contents. 


Selections  from  "  Locksley   Hall. 
Sixty    Years  After'1''  : 

"  Late,  My  Grandson,'"  .  .  .  441 
"On  This  Day,"  ....  443 
Duet  from  "  Becket,"  .  .  .  447 
Marjory's  Song  from  '*  Becket."  .  448 
Rosamund's  Song  from  "  Becket,"  448 

Songs  from   "  The  Promise  of  May  "  / 

I.  "  The  Tower  Lay  Still,"  .         .  448 
II.  "O  Happy  Lark,"  .         .  449 


The  Progress  of  Spring, 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam,  ,  . 

Parnassus,  . 

Far — Far — Away,     . 

Beautiful  City, 

The  Roses  on  the  Terrace, 

To  One  who  Ran  Down  the 

lish,        .... 
The  Snowdrop, 
The  Throstle, 
The  Oak, 

In  Memoriam Ward, 

Crossing  the  Bar,     . 


Ehg- 


449 
452 
455 
456 
457 
457 

457 
457 
458 
458 
459 
459 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 


THESE  biographical  sketches  and  critical  estimates  of  the 
laureates  (especially  in  the  case  of  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and 
Tennyson,  whose  genius  has  evoked  a  whole  literature  of  analytic 
criticism)  are  necessarily  fragmentary  and  brief,  designed  merely 
to  stimulate  detailed  study.  Such  study  would  be  fruitful  of 
much  delight  as  well  as  include  a  survey  of  many  momentous 
historical  and  literary  events,  and  furnish  glimpses  of  a  large 
number  of  famous  men  whose  lives  touched  directly  or  remotely 
those  of  the  poets  laureate. 

As  the  field  is  so  wide,  the  task  of  making  these  selections 
from  the  fourteen  laureates  has  been  difficult,  not  only  because 
the  works  of  several  of  them  are  buried  in  out-of-the-way 
and  forgotten  places,  but  because  in  many  cases  the  flowers 
of  poetry  have  had  to  be  plucked  from  a  mass  of  coarse  or 
noxious  weeds.  For  this  valuable  aid  in  our  work  we  are 
indebted  to  Miss  Josie  Russell,  who,  in  the  selections,  has  shown 
taste  and  critical  judgment  as  well  as  industry.  She  has  not 
attempted  to  give  the  strictly  official  poems  of  these  poets 
laureate,  but  to,  as  far  as  possible,  furnish  examples  of  their 
lyrical  genius.  In  cases  where  their  official  poems  are  repre- 
sentative of  their  genius  they  are  of  course  included.  A  com- 
plete collection  of  these  official  odes  of  the  laureates  would  be 
of  unique  value  and  interest,  though  it  would  exclude  the  work 
of  the  greatest  poet  among  them  all.  After  Wordsworth's 
acceptance  of  the  laurel  he  wrote  nothing  official  except  a  tine 
ode  on  the  installation  of  Prince  Albert  as  Chancellor  of  the 
University  of  Cambridge. 

The  Introduction  dealing  with  the  origin  and  significance  of 
the  Laureateship  appeared  originally  in  The  Century  Magazine  ; 
and  is  here  reproduced  by  kind  permission  of  the  publishers. 

Statistics  are  not  always  entertaining  reading,  but  they  are 
essential  for  accuracy,  and  nowhere  more  essential  than  in  the 
discussion  of  this  subject  of  the  Laureateship  of  England  ;  as  so 
much  has  been  written  upon  it  which  is  misleading.  Many 
journalists,  in  wishing  to  present  to  the  public  the  outlines  of  a 
"  timely  subject,"  read  hurriedly  a  few  "  authorities,"  not  wait- 
ing to  investigate  whether  these  be  reliable ;  they  do  not  weigh 


xiv  UntroDucttoiu 

What  these  laureates  have  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  critics 
of  the  present  time  is  not  to  be  compared  to  the  abuse  which 
was  lavished  upon  them  by  their  contemporaries,  //the  literary 
history  of  England  is  full  of  the  records  of  the  burlesques,  the 
lampoons,  the  coarse  wit  and  satire,  which  have  been  directed 
against  any  poet  who  lias  struggled  into  notice,  and  won  dis- 
tinction above  his  fellows.  The  poets  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  were  especially  exposed  to  these  satirical 
assaults. 

The  prevailing  opinion  is  not  always  the  true  or  the  just  one, 
though,  of  course,  it  has  a  measure  of  truth  and  of  justice  as  its 
foundation.  The  prevailing  opinion  in  regard  to  these  poets  of 
England  who  were  crowned  with  the  laurel  is  more  often  based 
upon  the  satires  and  lampoons  of  which  they  were  the  occasion, 
than  upon  the  nature  of  their  own  poetical  work.  People  read 
Dryden  and  Pope  instead  of  Shadwell  and  Cibber ;  but  the 
Colley  Cibber  of  the  "  Dunciad,"  and  the  Thomas  Shadwell  of 
"  Mac  Flecknoe  "  are  not  the  true  Cibber  and  the  true  Shad- 
well. The  laureates  have  been  more  assailed  by  satire  than 
other  poets,  and  this  not  because  they  were  necessarily  poor 
poets,  but  because  their  very  position  excited  envy.  Though 
men  like  Gray  and  Scott  refused  the  appointment  of  the  Laure- 
ateship,  the  position  was  often  eagerly  sought.  Especially 
about  the  time  of  Davenant,  poets  vied  with  one  another  for 
preference  ;  some  were  even  bold  enough  to  call  themselves 
laureates  when  they  had  no  cause  whatever  to  assume  the  title. 
After  the  death  of  Eusden,  when  the  unfortunate  Richard 
Savage  failed  to  receive  the  appointment  for  which  he  sued 
with  so  much  servility,  he  called  himself  the  volunteer  laureate, 
and  in  that  capacity  wrote  a  number  of  odes  for  the  queen, 
services  which  she  liberally  rewarded. 


II. 

When  the  origin  and  true  significance  of  the  Laureateship 
are  fully  understood,  there  seems  less  disposition  on  the  part  of 
the  student  of  literature  to  disparage  the  achievement  of  those 
men  upon  whom  the  honour  was  bestowed. 

Being  appointed  a  poet  laureate  did  not  always  in  the  past, 
nor  would  it  at  the  present  time,  imply  that  such  a  poet  was 
greater  than  his  fellows.  To  suppose  this  is  to  misapprehend 
the  nature  of  the  office.  It  must  always  be  remembered  that 
the  Laureateship  was  a  court  appointment,  an  office  in  the  gift 
of  the  Government.  Hence  the  laureate  was  a  court  poet,  and 
one  who  of  necessity  must  be  in  sympathy  with  the  monarch 


IfntroDuction.  xv 

and  all  monarchical  measures.  That  this  misapprehension  of 
the  Laureateship  is  very  common  is  proved  by  the  numerous 
newspaper  remarks  upon  the  subject.  A  recent  writer,  in 
expressing  the  usual  cant  about  these  laureates  being-  such  sorry 
poets,  says,  "  Think  of  Southey  being  laureate  while  Byron  was 
alive  !  "  We  might  retort,  "  Think  of  Byron,  the  poet  of  revo- 
lution, writing  a  '  Vision  of  Judgment,'  in  which  an  infamous 
king  was  canonised  ;  or  of  Byron  being  in  a  position  where  odes 
like  Southey's  on  the  negotiations  with  Bonaparte,  or  the 
visits  of  the  king  to  Ireland  and  Scotland,  were  expected  !  " 

Shelley  and  Byron  were  undoubtedly  greater  poets  than 
Southey  ;  but  to  have  seen  them  made  court  poets  would  have 
been  one  of  the  strangest  things  that  could  ever  occur  in  the 
history  of  English  poetry  ! 


III. 

It  is  true  that  from  the  era  of  Ben  Jonson  to  that  of 
Southey,  few  of  these  poets  laureate  sought  to  penetrate  far 
into  the  meaning  of  human  life ;  they  were  neither  impressed 
by  its  mystery,  nor  did  they  sound  the  depths  of  its  joy  and  its 
pawi^^/Lhe^iUd-^^dt-^  wisdom  from  the  central  deep// 
nor  possess  ihajLwJiicii  Bodenstedt  describes  as  the  philosophy 
which. 

"  Auf  stolzen  Schwinge 
Sucht  wie  ein  Adler  zum  Lichte  zu  dringen, 
Forscht  nach  dem  Urgrund  von  alien  Dingen." 

Their  work,  therefore,  lacks  power  and  loftiness  as  well  as 
depth,  and  it  is  without  moral  strength  and  dignity.  • 

'The  cause  of  this  is  not  far  to  seek.  When  Elizabeth  was 
well  established  upon  the  throne  of  England,  and  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  her  power,  a  new  spirit  became  evident  in  litera- 
ture, which  caused  her  reign  to  be  considered  the  most  glorious 
in  English  history.  This  outburst  of  the  national  mind  was 
ardent  and  eager,  original  and  creative.  This  eagle-like  spirit 
of  genius  reached  the  height  of  its  flight  in  the  years  between 
1603  and  1626,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth's  successor.  In  the 
reign  of  Charles  I.,  however,  a  marked  change  began  to  mani- 
fest itself — the  glory  had  begun  to  wane.  Ben  Jonson,  the 
first  poet  to  be  honoured  by  the  office  of  the  Laureateship  as  it 
now  is  understood,  did  his  best  work  amid  the  influences  which 
made  the  Elizabethan  age  so  great. 

It  was  because  of  his  eminent  services  to  literature  that  in 
1616 — some  authorities  say  1619 — James  I.  granted  to  Ben  Jon- 


xvi  flntro&uctfom 

son  letters  patent  making  him  poet  laureate.  Charles  I.  had 
been  king  five  years  when  he  reconsidered  this  appointment  of 
his  father.  He  issued  new  letters  patent  to  Ben  Jonson,  which 
for  the  first  time  made  the  Laureateship  a  permanent  institution. 

But  after  this,  the  glory  of  the  "  Elizabethan  Age  "  not  only 
began  to  wane,  but  the  Laureateship  came  to  be  considered  not 
only  a  reward  for  literary  services,  but  a  gift  dependent  largely 
upon  court  patronage. 

From  the  death  of  Jonson  in  1637  to  the  death  of  Henry 
James  Pye  in  18 13,  when  Southey  succeeded  him,  one  hundred 
and  seventy-six  years  passed.  In  that  period  the  Stuarts  lost 
the  throne  of  England.  During  the  Coma^nwealth  the  laure- 
ate, Sir  Willam  Davenant,  was  deposed.  Jw  hen  the  Restoration 
came  English  poetry  received  a  blow  fi/n  which  it  took  over  a 
hundred  years  to  recover,  The  creatire  age  of  Shakespeare  was 
past  and  gone.  The  influence  of  French  taste  and  of  French 
codes  of  morality,  of  foreign  standards  of  art,  was  felt  every- 
where. Literature  became  artificial  and  concerned  itself  with 
externals,  and  there  was  a  moral  blight  upon  the  drama. 

The  Augustan  age  of  Anne,  which  gave  us  Pope  and  Swift 
and  all  that  brilliant  circle,  though  it  was  rich  in  prose,  pro- 
duced no  great  inspired  natural  poet.  Inspiration,  natural- 
ness, and  a  high  poetic  ideal  seem  to  have  vanished  until 
Cowper  and  Burns  appeared. 

It  is  therefore  not  surprising  that  during  these  hundred  and 
seventy-six  years,  when  there  were  ten  poets  laureate,  there 
should  be  among  the  number  no  supremely  great  poet.  Amrfig 
the  ten,  Dryden  stands  first,  and  next  to  him,  Warton.  J^ut 
Dryden,  with  all  his  facile  skill,  his  command  of  the  resources 
of  language,  and  his  brilliant  wit,  produced  no  poem  which  was 
the  outcome  of  an  exalted  mood.  His  work  lacked  dignity  and 
moral  strength,  and  was  wholly  without  those  finer  influences 
which  tend  to  inspire  and  elevate  humanity.  Warton,  noble 
poet  as  he  was,  stood  halfway  between  the  school  that  was 
going  out  and  the  school  that  was  coming  in.  Cowper  and 
Burns  appeared  only  a  few  years  before  Warton  died,  and 
Wordsworth  published  nothing  till  after  Warton's  death. 
Warton  scarcely  felt  the  force  of  the  tide  which  was  bearing 
English  poetry  on  to  new  regions  of  thought.  He  was  great 
compared  to  the  men  who  immediately  preceded  him,  but  he 
belonged  to  an  artificial  school,  and  his  art  felt  the  influence 
of  its  limitations. 

For  twenty-three  years  Henry  James  Pye  wore  the  wreath  of 
laurel.  During  that  time  English  poetry  was  being  brought 
back  to  nature  by  the  inspired  work  of  Wordsworth  and  his 
great  contemporaries,  but  the  new  revelation  which  had  come 
to  them,  the  new  spirit  which  was  animating  English  poetry, 


•ffntrotmctiom  xvii 

touchedlti^^ureate  so  lightly  that  he  might  just  as  well  have 
beea0mng  in  the  age  of  Anne  as  in  that  of  George  III. 
"  vnd  so,  from  the  death  of  Jonson  to  the  accession  of  Southey, 
none  of  these  laureates  could  be  called  poets  of  the  highest 
order.  They  were  not  only  the  creatures  of  their  age,  but  their 
position  as  court  poets  called  for  no  grand  heroic  effort  in  verse. 
The  monarchs,  whom  it  was  their  duty  to  extol  and  flatter, 
had  few  qualities  to  inspire  genuine  enthusiasm.  Charles  I., 
whose  soul,  Ben  Jonson  said,  lived  in  an  alley;  Charles  II., 
false  and  corrupt  at  heart;  James  II.,  who  tried  so  hard  to  sub- 
vert the  liberties  of  the  nation  ;  William  III.,  who  cared  noth- 
ing for  English  poetry  or  poets  ;  Anne,  under  the  rule  of  her 
favourites,  with  little  regard  for  the  brilliant  writers  who  made 
her  reign  illustrious.  Then  came  the  Georges.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  when  the  poor  laureates  were  obliged  to  celebrate  the 
birthdays  of  these  ignoble  sovereigns  by  odes  and  lyrics,  that 
the  divine  afflatus  failed?  In  other  fields  of  literature  these 
laureates  sometimes  did  valuable  work,  especially  in  the  domain 
of  the  drama,  but  as  far  as  their  strictly  official  poems,  which 
their  position  made  compulsory,  are  concerned,  they  cannot  be 
said  to  deserve  high  praise. 


IV. 

In  many  accounts  of  the  Laureateship,  there  is  not  sufficient 
distinction  maintained  between  those  poets  whose  claim  to  the 
title  was  shadowy  and  intangible,  and  those  who  had  authentic 
right  to  the  honour.  Some  authorities,  in  speaking  of  Chaucer, 
or  Skelton,  or  Spenser  as  laureates,  often  neglect  to  explain 
just  how  they  came  to  be  so  called. 

All  history  is  founded  on  tradition ;  mists  and  clouds  veil  the 
far  past,  and  it  is  only  by  inference  and  reasoning  from  analogy 
that  definite  knowledge  is  gained.  Much  confusion  prevails, 
and  probably  will  ever  prevail,  in  regard  to  the  origins  of  various 
customs  and  institutions.     Many  of  them  have 

"  Broadened  slowly  down 
From  precedent  to  precedent." 

The  idea  of  the  Laureateship  appears  to  have  assumed  form 
gradually ;  but  this  much  is  certain,  that,  as  it  now  exists,  it 
began  with  Ben  Jonson.  It  was  not  until  1630  that  it  became  a 
definite  and  permanent  institution.  It  was  then  that  Charles  I. 
ratified  the  appointment  which  had  been  conferred  upon 
Jonson  by  James  I.  The  annual  pension  which  had  been  given 
before  was  increased  to  one  hundred  pounds,  and  a  butt  of  wine 


xviii  Untrofcuctiom 

from  the  king's  cellars.  When  this  great  poet  and  dramatist  was 
thus  formally  recognised  as  an  officer  of  the  royal  household, 
he  undoubtedly  occupied  the  first  place  in  the  world  of  letters. 
Before  Ben  Jonson's  time,  however,  there  were  court  poets 
who  sang  the  praises  of  their  sovereigns,  who  celebrated  in 
heroic  verse  the  victories  which  exalted  the  nation,  and  who 
were  rewarded  for  their  services  with  pensions  and  emoluments. 
It  had  been  from  very  early  times  the  custom  in  Italy,  Ger- 
many, and  even  Spain,  to  crown  certain  poets  who  were  con- 
sidered pre-eminent.  The  custom  probably  originated  in  the 
mythologic  period.  If  some  writers  wish  to  call  Apollo  the  first 
laureate  they  may  do  so ;  though  he  might  possibly  wish  to 
be  in  better  company  than  among  the  laureates  of  the  Augustan 
age  of  England.  Better  to  place  him  among  those  of  the 
Augustan  age  of  Rome,  for  Vergil  and  Horace  were  both 
crowned  with  the  laurel  wreath. 

It  had  been  the  custom  among  the  ancient  Greeks  to  crown 
their  poets  with  a  wreath  symbolical  of  both  appreciation  and 
reward.  The  Romans  imitated  the  Greeks  of  course  in  this  as 
in  so  many  other  things.  The  universities  of  the  Middle  Ages 
must  in  their  turn  have  derived  their  custom  of  laureation  from 
the  well-known  crowning  of  Petrarch  by  the  Roman  senate. 
Many  universities  on  the  Continent  blended  with  the  poetic 
distinction  a  reference  to  theology  quite  characteristic  of  the  age. 
Thus  in  the  early  times  there  were  many  poets  laureate. 
They  were  not,  however,  necessarily  court  poets. 

Warton  asserts  that  the  universities  conferred  the  honour  as  a 
degree  upon  those  graduates  who  excelled  in  rhetoric  and  Latin 
versification.  A  wreath  of  laurel  was  placed  upon  their  heads, 
and,  if  they  were,  at  the  same  time,  licensed  to  be  teachers  of 
boys,  they  were  publicly  presented  with  a  rod  and  ferrule. 

Warton  describes  several  interesting  instances  of  these  de- 
grees in  versification  being  conferred  at  Oxford.  One  student 
received  the  laurel  on  condition  that  he  compose  a  Latin  com- 
edy and  one  hundred  Latin  verses  in  praise  of  the  university. 
We  see  in  this  perhaps  the  beginning  of  the  custom  of  linking 
to  the  honour  of  laureation  certain  conditions  which  made  it 
somewhat  like  a  mercantile  transaction. 

Caxton,  in  a  work  printed  in  1490,  mentions  "  Mayster  John 
Skelton,  late  created  poete  laureate  in  the  university  of  Oxen- 
ford."  Skelton  had  been  crowned  with  the  laurel  probably  in 
1489,  and  four  years  after  he  was  permitted  to  wear  the  same 
badge  also  at  Cambridge.  This  is  the  cause  of  Skelton's  sign- 
in^himself  "  Poeta  Skelton  Laureatus." 

^There  seems  to  be  considerable  uncertainty  in  regard  to  the 
origin  of  the  term  poet  laureate  as  applied  to  a  member  of  the 
royal  household  of  England. 


IFntroDuctton.  xix 

The  custom  must  gradually  have  arisen  for  English  mon- 
archs  to  choose  from  among  these  laureates  of  the  university 
one  who  would  be  present  at  court,  and  would  on  stated  oc- 
casions sing  the  praises  of  his  country  and  his  king.  Many 
times  this  poet  was  called  simply  king's  versifier,  and  there 
are  a  few  instances  on  record  of  this  king's  versifier  being  chosen 
when  he  had  never  received  from  Oxford  any  laureate  degree  ; 
though,  as  a  rule,  the  appointment  was  conferred  because  the 
recipient  had  already  received  the  laurel  crown  for  skill  in  Latin 
versification.  It  was  customary  also  for  the  court  poets  to 
write  in  Latin,  as  the  English  language  was  regarded  with 
universal  contempt.  Warton  is  of  the  opinion  that  the  royal 
laureate  did  not  begin  to  write  in  English  till  the  Reformation 
had  begun  to  diminish  the  veneration  for  Latin. 

An  institution,  somewhat  like  ^he  Laureateship,  calculated  to 
encourage  literature  and  develop  the  national  language,  is  traced 
to  the  early  reign  of  Henry  III. — when  a  yearly  salary  of  one 
hundred  shillings  was  given  to  Henry  d'Avranches,  and  he  has 
therefore  been  called  the  pioneer  laureate ;  but  this  is  a  mere 
tradition.  "  lYrmhirl  nrtidnlitj  nnn  pi  no  fmllii  i  lindi  llhin  In 
thai ifot tor tnf  English  Pont*^' 

Chaucer,  by  his  close  relationship  to  John  of  Gaunt,  to  whose 
influence  he  owed  some  official  appointments,  has  often  been 
styled  poet  laureate  to  Edward  IV.,  but  there  is  no  evidence 
whatever  that  he  had  any  right  to  the  title.  He  was  simply  a 
great  poet  who  was  often  at  court,  and  who  received  certain 
rewards  for  definite  political,  not  poetical,  services. 

After  Richard  II.  met  Gower  rowing  on  the  Thames,  and 
asked  him  straightway  to  book  some  new  thing,  Gower  called 
himself  the  king's  laureate  \  IJTil  GUiiltorrrwiiik.'  piaisTng"buth 
GamE.flrad  ChftM«er»  fiaid~<tt&ey~ -wanted  nothing  but  the  Law- 
rell."  We  hear  of  John  Kay,  a  court  poet  who  lived  over  fifty 
years  later  than  Gower,  addressing  himself  to  Edward  IV.  as 
"  hys  humble  poet  laureate."  But  the  title  was  wholly  self- 
given.  Henry  VII.  is  said  to  have  granted  to  Andrew  Bernard, 
poet  laureate,  a  small  salary  till  he  should  obtain  some  employ- 
ment which  would  insure  him  the  same  sum ;  but  there  is 
nothing  very  permanent  in  this. 

The  court  jester  Scogan  called  himself  laureate,  but  his  claim 
cannot  be  sustained. 

Skelton  aspired  to  be  court  poet  as  well  as  the  laureate  of 
Oxford,  rpy  his  keeirvmd  pungent  satire  he  must  have  been  a 
power  in  Helping  on  the  Reformation.  He  was  connected  by 
the  whole  scope  of  his  literary  purpose  with  the  reign  of  Henry 
VIII. ,  and  in  that  reign  the  ijlea  of  religious  liberty  became 
manifest  with  irresistible  power™ 

The  portrait  of  a  great  poet — the   immortal  Spenser — has 


xx  ITntroDuction. 

been  placed  recently  in  a  periodical  beside  that  of  Chaucer,  and 
both  are  called  poets  laureate  of  the  past ;  but  there  is  no 'evi- 
dence whatever  to  justify  the  statement.  Edmund  Spenser 
was  pensioned  by  Queen  Elizabeth,  but  there  arc^even  doubts 
whether  this  pension  was  paid  more  than  once.  j$v  hen  Southey 
was  appointed  laureate  he  wished  to  magnify  his  office,  and  he 
thereupon  wrote  some  poetry  about  it,  and  by  poetic  license 
spoke  of  that 

Wreath  which  in  Eliza's  golden  days 
My  master,  dear,  divinest  Spenser  wore  ; 

but  in  plain  prose  Southey  admitted  that  none  of  the  poets 
of  whom  he  sang  had,  with  the  exception  of  Ben  Jonson,  any 
right  to  the  title  of  laureate.  It  was  given  to  them,  he  says,  not 
as  holding  the  office,  but  as  a  mark  of  honour  to  which  they 
were  entitled.  Among  these  volunteer  laureates  whonkSouthey 
thus  praised  were  Samuel  Daniel  and  Michael  Draytojp  Daniel 
held  important  posts  at  court,  and  \fras  much  beldved  there ; 
but  when  the  courtiers  of  James  I.  began  to  concern  themselves 
with  the  production  of  the  masques  which  were  becoming  so 
popular,  it  was  considered  that  Ben  Jonson  was  the  poet  best 
fitted  to  be  responsible  for  their  management.  Daniel  there- 
fore retired  from  the  court.  Drayton's  portrait  has  come  down 
to  us,  his  brow  encircled  by  the  wreath  of  laurel.  This  is  owing 
to  the  poet's  secret  wish,  and  was^also  the  tribute  of  his  friends. 

Drayton's  sonnets  rank  high  in  the  language,  but  though 
he  may  have  deserved  the  laurel  it  was  never  his  by  royal 
appointment. 

We  find  in  every  case  that,  prior  to  the  era  of  Ben  Jonson,  the 
claims  of  any  poet  to  the  title  of  laureate  cannot  be  sustained, 
unless  that  poet  had  received  the  honour  from  the  University 
of  Oxford. 


BEN  JONSON. 


THE  LAUREATES. 


BEN  JONSON. 

FIRST   POET    LAUREATE   WITH    LETTERS   PATENT. 

Born  in  London  in  1573  Made  court  poet  to  James  I.  in  1616,  the  year  of 
Shakespeare's  death.  This  appointment  confirmed  in  1630,  and  the  Laureateship 
made  permanent.     Died  in  1637. 

(Reigns  of  James  I.  and  Charles  I.) 

THOUGH  the  fame  of  Ben  Jonson  has  been  affected  by 
certain  misrepresentations  of  his  character,  both  literary  and 
persona],  notably  by  the  betrayal  of  trust  of  which  Drummond 
of  Hawthornden  was  guilty,  the  words  which  have  been  applied 
to  Dryden  can  much  more  appropriately  be  applied  to  him  : 

"  He  wrestles  with  and  conquers  time." 

By  his  strong  creative  genius  and  his  healthful  vigour,  he  was 
an  honour  not  only  to  the  office  he  held,  but  to  English 
literature.  The  fact  that  he  was  the  first  laureate  has  added 
little  to  his  fame.  His  name  has  lived  because  he  was  a  man 
of  colossal  mental  stature,  who  by  his  powerful  personality 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  his  age,  and  because  as  a  great 
dramatist  and  as  a  lyric  poet  his  work  forms  a  part  of 

"  Those  melodious  bursts  which  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still." 

Many  poets  have  acknowledged  their  indebtedness  to  him. 
Milton  himself  so  admired  him  that  some  of  his  poems  are 
directly  modelled  upon  his.  Shadwell  openly  took  him  as  his 
master  in  the  dramatic  art.  In  Keats'  best  work  we  find  traces 
of  the  stately  majesty  and  the  perfect  workmanship  of  some  of 
Jonson 's  lines.  Even  Tennyson  has  felt  the  influence  of  this 
great  and  original  thinker. 

Ben  Jonson's  work,   however,   will  be  found  to  be  full   of 


;2#-        • ;  : : ::  *  •      men  Jonson. 
»•      •  •    ••'•*•» 

<tefefctsV'iJjs  irne^ual.'.  Some  of  it  is  imitative  of  the  classics, 
^antfimucrfirf  it  js' heavy  and  gloomy.  B**t  in  his  lighter  moods 
his  touch  is  exquisite,  his  lyrical  genius  enchanting.  His  elegies 
are  perhaps  as  fine  as  any  in  the  language ;  and  his  wide  and 
profound  learning  give  to  his  dramatic  productions  a  classical 
elegance  often  lacking  in  those  of  his  contemporaries.  Austin 
and  Ralph  very  justly  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  Ben  Jon- 
son  is  no  exception  to  the  rule  that  clear  and  strong  utterance 
is  one  of  the  chief  characteristics  of  genius,  and  that  great  poets 
have  been  good  prose  writers.  "  The  destruction  of  his  prose 
manuscripts  is  to  be  much  regretted  ;  what  are  left  show  erudite 
criticism  and  severity  of  judgment.  Notes  on  books  and  on 
life  written  in  a  concise  and  pregnant  style  remind  us  of  Bacon's 
Essays." 

Ben  Jonson's  life  was  one  of  desperate  struggle  and  of 
manysorrows  as  well  as  glorious  success.  He  was  of  noble 
family,  his  grandfather  having  been  a  man  of  rank  and  fortune 
in  the  service  of  Henry  VIII.  His  father,  however,  suffered 
persecution  in  the  reign  of  Bloody  Mary,  and  it  was  only  at 
her  death  that  he  was  liberated  from  prison.  He  took  orders 
soon  after  the  accession  of  Elizabeth,  but  death  came  to  him 
just  a  month  before  the  birth  of  his  famous  son. 

Little  is  known  of  Ben's  childhood,  except  that  he  was  brave 
and  courageous  at  school,  a  good  student,  a  good  fighter,  a 
good  hater,  as  well  as  an  ardent  lover.  How  well  he  loved  his 
teacher  at  Westminster  school  where  his  boyhood  was  passed 
is  shown  by  the  famous  dedication  of  his  works  to  the  great 
Camden. 

The  youth  of  the  poet  was  full  of  vicissitude.  Disdaining 
bricklaying,  a  trade  thrust  upon  him  probably  by  his  step- 
father, he  entered  Cambridge  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  But  he 
soon  found  his  means  totally  inadequate  to  his  remaining  at 
the  university,  and  so  he  volunteered  into  the  army.  He  per- 
formed many  heroic  deeds  in  the  Low  Countries;  once  engag- 
ing in  single  combat,  when  he  slew  his  opponent,  seized  his 
arms,  and  carried  them  away  in  full  view  of  both  armies.  This 
achievement  at  the  age  of  eighteen  was  no  ignoble  one.  But 
the  trade  of  arms  as  well  as  that  of  the  artisan  failed  to  satisfy 
the  restless  temperament  of  Ben  Jonson.  He  returned  to 
England  and  found  an  outlet  for  his  intellectual  energy  as  well 
as  a  means  of  support,  upon  the  stage.  He  appeared  first  in  a 
small  playhouse  called  the  Green  Curtain.  At  the  outset  of  his 
career,  however,  a  misfortune  overwhelmed  him  which  coloured 
all  his  future  life.  A  quarrel  with  a  fellow-actor  resulted  in  a 
duel,  in  which  Ben  Jonson  killed  his  opponent.  Overcome 
with  remorse  for  the  deed,  and  himself  wounded  painfully,  he 
was  thrown  into  prison  and,  as  he  says,  brought  near  to  the 


gallows.  The  prisons  of  that  time  were  sorry  places ;  Jonson 
suffered  acutely  both  in  body  and  in  spirit.  It  is  hinted  by 
some  of  his  biographers  that  during  this  period  of  suffering  no 
solace  was  offered  him  from  the  clergymen  of  his  own  church. 
Popish  priests,  however,  sought  him  out  and  under  their  influ- 
ence the  forlorn  youth  forsook  the  faith  for  which  his  father 
had  undergone  such  cruel  persecution.  Years  after,  Jonson 
returned  to  the  church  his  father  had  loved  so  well.  Both 
apostasy  and  reconversion  were  undoubtedly  sincere,  and 
whatever  sins  and  errors  stained  the  life-record  of  this  head- 
strong, impetuous  thinker,  he  never  gave  up  his  faith  in  God. 
Though  Jonson  has  won  his  lame  principally  as  a  dramatist,  he 
wrote  many  beautiful  religious  poems,  which  reveal  a  thought- 
ful, sincere,  and  devoted  spirit. 

--Released  at  length  from  prison,  Jonson  reassumed  the  profes- 
sion of  the  stage,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty,  with  no  settled 
income,  he  showed  his  impulsive  disposition  by  plunging  into 
matrimony.  The  woman  he  married  had  domestic  tastes  and 
was  brave  and  courageous  in  enduring  the  privations  of  their 
early  life  together.  A  hard  time  they  had  of  it  too.  At  first 
Jonson  was  very  poor  and  quite  unknown  ;  then,  as  his  genius 
found  recognition  and  he  was  rewarded  with  court  honours,  he, 
who  was  always  careless  in  the  use  of  money,  became  recklessly 
extravagant.  The  poor  wife  could  never  have  had  either  a 
very  happy  or  serene  life.  That  for  five  years  she  lived  apart 
from  her  husband  is  not  surprising.  Yet  Jonson's  heart  was 
tender  and  affectionate  and  he  was  a  loving  father. 

Jonson  was  never  a  good  actor,  and  at  first  his  principal 
occupation  was  recasting  old  plays.  But  by  the  writing  of  his 
drama,  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,"  he  placed  himself  among 
the  great  dramatists  of  his  time.  He  showed  that  he  had  found 
his  true  life-work,  and  from  the  commencement  of  the  new 
century  he  had  a  succession  of  triumphs. 

Jonson's  great  strength  was  comedy,  but  he  wrote  two 
tragedies  which  were  full  of  power  and  dignity.  His  comedies 
show  versatility,  breadth  of  treatment,  and  overflowing  wit. 
His  wide  knowledge  of  life  led  him  to  analyse  many  base  and 
contemptible  passions,  and  yet  he  sought  to  elevate  his  readers, 
and  his  efforts  to  instruct  as  well  as  to  elevate  led  him  often  to 
be  accused  of  pedantry. 

Jonson's  high  rank  in  the  world  of  letters  rests  not  only  upon 
his  dramas,  but  upon  those  masques  which  were  so  popular 
among  the  courtiers  of  James  I.  In  his  plays  he  does  not 
show  the  creative  strength  or  the  imaginative  insight  of  Shakes- 
peare. His  personages  have  not  the  living,  vital  force  nor  the 
finer  and  more  subtle  distinctions  of  character.  To  use  his 
own  phrase,  he  often  delineated  humours  rather  than  persons. 


4  JScn  Jonson, 

This  analysis  of  minute  eccentricities  and  of  striking  whims 
and  propensities  makes  Ben  Jonson's  personages  often  too 
abstract — types  rather  than  individuals.  The  accentuation  of 
one  dominant  passion  is  impressive  and  original,  but  it  is  not 
natural.  Invmany  plays  Jonson  satirised  the  vices  and  affecta- 
tions of  the  time.  He  wished  honestly  enough  to  reform  his 
age, -ami  unlike  Dryden  he  pandered  to  no  prevailing  taste;  he 
spoke  out  his  convictions  fearlessly — careless  whether  he  won 
worldly  advancement  or  general  scorn.  His  language  of  invec- 
tive is  sharp,  nervous,  and  forcible — in  all  his  work  there  is  a 
mighty  egotism  as  well  as  a  mighty  and  manly  strength.  The 
man's  individuality  is  all  pervasive. 

It  is_in  his  lovely  masques  that  the  true  poetic  genius  of  Ben 
Jonson  is  most  apparent.  Seldom  tender  or  pathetic  in  his 
plays,  he  is  both  in  the  masques,  and  they  have,  also,  a  lyrical 
charm  most  entrancing. 

Jonson's  days  were  spent  in  laborious  study,  winning  distinc- 
tion for  his  great  learning,  and  his  nights  were  usually  spent  in 
the  indulgence  of  his  convivial  habits  at  the  Mermaid  Club. 
This  club,  made  up  of  the  most  famous  wits  and  poets,  was  of 
course  frequented  by  Shakespeare,  Selden,  Raleigh,  Beaumont, 
Fletcher,  and  the  rest.  Many  a  good  time  must  these  friends 
have  had  together. 

Keats,  whose  genius  was  in  such  thorough  sympathy  with 
these  old   Elizabethans,  wrote : 

"  Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ?     O  generous  foodi 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robinllood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can." 

Ben  Jonson's  ardent,  tempestuous  nature  exposed  him  to 
many  rude  shocks  of  fate  :  he  had  many  bitter  quarrels  with 
his  fellow-dramatists,  but  he  many  times  showed  fine  qualities 
of  magnanimity  and  justice,  and  he  was  often  forgiving. 

About  the  time  of  Shakespeare's  death  Jonson  brought  out 
a  complete  edition  of  his  own  plays,  and  James  I.  honoured  him 
by  conferring  upon  him  a  pension  and  the  office  of  poet  to  his 
court.  Soon  after  this  he  travelled  both  in  Scotland  and  on 
the  Continent,  meeting  many  notable  people  and  winning  every- 
where both  friends  and  enemies.  At  the  death  of  the  king 
in  1625,  Jonson  began  to  suffer  a  decline  in  court  favour.     His 


extravagance  had  been  so  great  that  in  spite  of  his  pension  and 
the  many  costly  gifts  from  friends  at  court,  he  was  always  in 
want,  and  his  drinking  habits  brought  with  them  their  inevitable 
punishment— disease  and  suffering. 

Charles  I.  had  been  five  years  on  the  throne  before  he  paid 
much  attention  to  his  father's  favourite  poet.  But  when  Jonson 
appealed  to  him  for  help,  he  quickly  responded  with  a  large 
gift.  Then,  desirous  of  paying  some  tribute  to  literature,  and 
to  confer  distinction  upon  his  own  reign,  he  made  the  Laureate- 
ship  permanent — an  office  founded  upon  letters  patent,  with 
an  annual  salary  of  a  hundred  pounds  ;  and  in  deference  to 
Jonson's  well-known  tastes,  he  added  to  this  salary  a  butt  of 
Canary  wine.  The  laureate  was  so  fond  of  this  particular  wine 
that  his  boon  companions  often  called  him  the  canary  bird. 
Suckling,  in  his  famous  burlesque,  "  The  Session  of  the  Poets," 
where  he  represents  the  foremost  wits  of  the  day  as  having  a 
contest  for  the  laurel,  says  : 

"  The  first  that  brake  silence  was  good  old  Ben, 
Prepared  with  Canary  wine, 
And  he  told  them  plainly  he  deserved  the  bays." 

This  preparation  with  Canary  wine,  not  to  mention  stronger 
potations,  had  altered  Jonson's  personal  appearance  greatly. 
Thin  and  pale  in  youth,  he  soon  became  stout,  his  face  flushed 
and  unattractive.  A  lady  of  the  court  described  him  once  to 
someone  who  had  likened  him  to  the  poet  Horace  :  "  That 
same  Horace  of  yours  has  a  most  ungodly  face,  by  my  fan  !  It 
looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  russet  apple  when  'tis  bruised." 
And,  though  we  must  take  with  a  liberal  dose  of  salt  all  that 
Drummond  said  of  his  guest,  Drummond  said  that  drink  was 
the  element  in  which  Ben  Jonson  lived. 

Jonson's  last  days  were  sad  and  lonely.  His  wife  and  all  his 
children  had  long  since  died  ;  palsy  had  attacked  him  ;  he  was 
poor  and  weak,  and  in  great  suffering.  And  yet  all  his  finest 
poetic  qualities  united  in  the  production  oT  his  pastoral  play, 
"  The  Sad  Shepherd,  or  The  Tale  of  Robin  Hood."  We  can 
trace  echoes  of  this  exquisite  poem  in  many  of  the  lyrics  of  our 
own  time.  But  death  came  to  Ben  Jonson  before  he  could 
finish  this  beautiful  swan  song. 

In  the  Poet's  Corner  of  the  great  Abbey  he  was  laid,  and  to 
the  kind  act  of  a  stranger  we  owe  that  unique  and  wonderful 
epitaph  :  "  O  rare  Ben  Jonson  !  " 


SELECTIONS  FROM  JONSON. 


TO   CELIA. 

{From  tc  The  Forest,") 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine : 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 
I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  did'st  only  breathe, 

And  send'st  it  back  to  me : 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

ON  TRUTH. 

TRUTH  is  the  trial  of  itself, 
And  needs  no  other  touch, 

And  purer  than  the  purest  gold 
Refine  it  ne'er  so  much. 

It  is  the  life  and  light  of  love, 
The  sun  that  ever  shineth, 

And  spirit  of  that  special  grace, 
That  faith  and  love  defineth. 

It  is  the  warrant  of  the  word, 
That  yields  a  scent  so  sweet, 

As  gives  a  power  to  faith  to  tread 
All  falsehood  under  feet. 


3Ben  Jonson. 


HAPPINESS. 


True  happiness  consists  not  in  the  multitude  of  friends, 
But  in  their  worth  and  choice: 


LINES. 

(From  ' '  The  Sad  Shepherd. ") 

Here  she  was  wont  to  go  !  and  here !  and  here! 

Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow; 

The  work]  may  find  the  spring  in  following  her, 

For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left. 

Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 

Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk  ! 

But  like  the  soft  west  wind  she  shot  along, 

And  where  she  went  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 

As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot. 

LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

The  ports  of  death  are  sins ;  of  life,  good  deeds ; 
Through  which  our  merit  leads  us  to  our  meeds. 
How  wilful  blind  is  he,  then,  that  would  stray, 
And  hath  it  in  his  powers  to  make  his  way. 
This  world  death's  region  is,  the  other,  life's; 
And  here,  it  should  be  one  of  our  first  strifes 
So  to  front  death  as  men  might  judge  us  past  it ; 
For  good  men  see  but  death,  the  wicked  taste  it. 

THE  PLEASURE  OF  HEAVEN. 

There  all  the  happy  souls  that  ever  were, 
Shall  meet  with  gladness  in  one  theatre; 
And  each  shall  know  there  one  another's  face, 
By  beatific  virtue  of  the  place. 
There  shall  the  brother  with  the  sister  walk, 
And  sons  and  daughters  with  their  parents  talk ; 
But  all  of  God  ;  they  still  shall  have  to  say, 
But  make  him  all  in  all  their  theme  that  day; 
That  happy  day  that  never  shall  see  night  ! 
Where  he  will  be  all  beauty  to  the  sight ; 
Wine  or  delicious  fruits  unto  the  taste ; 
A  music  in  the  ears  will  ever  last ; 


JBen  5on6om 

Unto  the  scent,  a  spicery  or  balm ; 

And  to  the  touch,  a  flower,  like  soft  as  palm. 

He  will  all  glory,  all  perfection  be, 

God  in  the  Union  and  the  Trinity ! 

That  holy,  great,  and  glorious  mystery, 

Will  there  revealed  be  in  majesty, 

By  light  and  comfort  of  spiritual  grace ; 

The  vision  of  our  Saviour,  face  to  face, 

In  his  humanity  !  to  hear  him  preach 

The  price  of  our  redemption,  and  to  teach, 

Through  his  inherent  righteousness  in  death,- 

The  safety  of  our  souls  and  forfeit  breath  ! 


FANTASY. 

{From  '•  The  Vision  of  Delight.'") 

Break,  Fantasy,  from  thy  cave  of  cloud, 

And  spread  thy  purple  wings, 
Now  all  thy  figures  are  allowed, 

And  various  shapes  of  things ; 
Create  of  airy  forms  a  stream, 

It  must  have  blood,  and  naught  of  phlegm  ; 
And  though  it  be  a  waking  dream, 

Yet  let  it  like  an  odour  rise 
To  all  the  senses  here, 

And  fall  like  sleep  upon  their  eyes, 
Or  music  in  their  ear. 


A  VISION  OF  BEAUTY. 

It  was  a  beauty  that  I  saw, — 
So  pure,  so  perfect,  as  the  frame 
Of  all  the  universe  were  lame 
To  that  one  figure,  could  I  draw, 
Or  give  least  line  of  it  a  law  : 
A  skein  of  silk  without  a  knot ! 
A  fair  march  made  without  a  halt  ! 
A  curious  form  without  a  fault  ! 
A  printed  book  without  a  blot ! 
All  beauty ! — and  without  a  spot. 


0$ 


V 


'  BREAK,  FANTASY,  FROM  THE  CAVE  OF  CLOUD, 
AND  SPREAD  THY  PURPLE  WINGS."— Page  8» 


J5Sen  Jonson. 


TRUTH. 

{From  "  Hymenal,  or  the  Solemnities  of  Masques  and  Barriers  at  the 
Marriage  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  1606.") 

Upon  her  head  she  wears  a  crown  of  stars, 

Through  which  her  Orient  hair  waves  to  her  waist, 

By  which  believing  mortals  hold  her  fast, 

And  in  those  golden  cords  are  carried  even, 

Till  with  her  breath  she  blows  them  up  to  heaven. 

She  wears  a  robe  enchased  with  eagles'  eyes, 

To  signify  her  sight  in  mysteries : 

Upon  each  shoulder  sits  a  milk-white  dove, 

And  at  her  feet  do  coilly  serpents  move  : 

Her  spacious  arms  do  reach  from  east  to  west, 

And  you  may  see  her  heart  shine  through  her  breast. 

Her  right  hand  holds  a  sun  with  burning  rays, 

Her  left  a  curious  bunch  of  golden  keys, 

With  which  heaven's  gates  she  locketh  and  displays. 

A  crystal  mirror  hangeth  at  her  breast, 

By  which  men's  consciences  are  searched  and  drest, 

On  her  coach-wheels  Hypocrisy  lies  racked  ; 

And  squint-eyed  Slander  with  Vainglory  backed, 

Her  bright  eyes  burn  to  dust,  in  which  shines  Fate : 

An  angel  ushers  her  triumphant  gait, 

Whilst  with  her  fingers  fans  of  stars  she  twists, 

And  with  them  beats  back  Error,  clad  in  mists. 

Eternal  Unity  behind  her  shines, 

That  fire  and  water,  earth  and  air  combines. 

Her  voice  is  like  a  trumpet  loud  and  shrill, 

Which  bids  all  sounds  in  earth  and  heaven  be  still. 


EPITAPH   ON   MY   FIRST   DAUGHTER. 

Here  lies,  to  each  her  parents  ruth, 

Mary,  the  daughter  of  our  youth  ; 

Yet,  all  Heaven's  gifts  being  Heaven's  due, 

It  makes  the  father  less  to  rue. 

At  six  months'  end,  she  parted  hence 

With  safety  of  her  innocence  ; 

Whose  soul  Heaven's  Queen — whose  name  she  bears- 

In  comfort  of  her  mother's  tears, 

Hath  placed  among  her  virgin  train  : 

Where,  while  that  severed  doth  remain, 

This  grave  partakes  the  fleshly  birth, 

Which  cover  lightly,  gentle  earth. 


io  j53en  Jonsoiu 


EPITAPH  ON  ELIZABETH  L.  H. 

Wouldst  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 
In  a  little  ?     Reader,  stay. 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 

As  much  beauty  as  could  die: 

Which  in  life  did  harbour  give 

To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth  ; 

The  other,  let  it  sleep  in  death, 

Fitter,  where  it  died  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell ! 


EPITAPH    ON    MASTER   PHILIP  GRAY. 

{From  "  Underwoods."} 

Reader,  stay; 
And  if  I  had  no  more  to  say 
But  "  Here  doth  lie,  till  the  last  day, 
All  that  is  left  of  Philip  Gray," 
It  might  thy  patience  richly  pay : 
For  if  such  men  as  he  could  die, 
What  surety  o'  life  have  thou  and  I  ? 

EPITAPH   ON    MARGARET    RATCLIFFE. 

Marble,  weep  !  for  thou  dost  cover 
A  dead  beauty  underneath  thee, 
Rich  as  nature  could  bequeath  thee : 

Grant,  then,  no  rude  hands  remove  her ! 
All  the  gazers  on  the  skies 

Read  not  in  fair  heaven's  story 

Expresser  truth  or  truer  glory 

Than  they  might  in  her  bright  eyes. 

Rare  as  wonder  was  her  wit, 
And,  like  nectar,  overflowing  ; 
Till  Time,  strong  by  her  bestowing, 

Conquer'd  hath  both  life  and  it  : 


fficn  Jonson. 

Life  whose  grief  was  out  of  fashion 
In  these  times.     Few  so  have  rued 
Fate  in  another.     To  conclude, — 
For  wit,  feature,  and  true  passion, 
Earth  !  thou  hast  not  such  another. 


SONG. 

How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair, 

Which  we  no  sooner  see, 
But  with  the  lines  and  outward  air 

Our  senses  taken  be. 
We  wish  to  see  it  still,  and  prove 

What  ways  we  may  deserve  ; 
We  court,  we  praise,  we  more  than  love, 

We  are  not  grieved  to  serve. 

FAME. 

HER  house  is  all  of  echo  made, 

Where  never  dies  the  sound  ; 
And  as  her  brows  the  clouds  invade, 

Her  feet  do  strike  the  ground. 

ODE    TO    HIMSELF. 

Where  dost  thou  careless  lie 

Buried  in  ease  and  sloth  ? 
Knowledge  that  sleeps,  doth  die  ; 
And  this  security, 

It  is  the  common  moth 
That  eats  on  wits  and  arts,  and  so  destroys  them  both. 

Are  all  the  Aonian  springs 

Dried  up  ?     Lies  Thespia  waste  ? 
Doth  Clarius'  harp  want  strings, 
That  not  a  nymph  now  sings  ? 
Or  droop  they  as  disgraced, 
To  see  their  seats  and  bowers  by  chattering  pies  defaced  ? 

If  hence  thy  silence  be, 

As  'tis  too  just  a  cause, — 
Let  this  thought  quicken  thee  ; 
Minds  that  are  great  and  free 

Should  not  on  fortune  pause  ; 
'Tis  crown  enough  to  virtue  still,  her  own  applause. 


JBen  Sonson. 


CHIVALRY. 

The  house  of  Chivalry  decayed, 

Or  rather  ruined  seems,  her  buildings  laid 

Flat  with  the  Earth,  that  were  the  pride  of  Time; 

Those  obelisks  and  columns  broke  and  down, 

That  strook  the  stars,  and  raised  the  British  Crown 

To  be  a  Constellation. 
When  to  the  structure  went  more  noble  names 
Than  to  the  Ephesian  Temple  lost  in  flames,  • 
When  every  stone  was  laid  by  virtuous  hands. 

SONG. 

The  faery  beam  upon  you, 
And  the  stars  to  glister  on  you, 

A  moon  of  light 

In  the  noon  of  night, 
Till  the  fire-drake  hath  o'ergone  you  : 
The  wheel  of  Fortune  guide  you, 
The  boy  with  the  bow  beside  you 
Run  aye  in  the  way,  till  the  bird  of  day 

And  the  luckier  lot  betide  you. 


TRANSLATION  OF  COWLEY'S  EPIGRAM  ON 
FRANCIS  DRAKE. 

The  stars  above  will  make  thee  known, 
If  man  were  silent  here; 
The  sun  himself  cannot  forget 
His  fellow-traveller. 


NATURE. 

How  young  and  fresh  am  I  to-night, 

To  see't  kept  day  by  so  much  light, 

And  twelve  of  my  sons  stand  in  their  Maker's  sight  ! 

Help,  wise  Prometheus,  something  must  be  done, 

To  show  they  are  the  creatures  of  the  sun. 

That  each  to  other 

Is  a  brother, 
And  Nature  here  no  stepdame,  but  a  mother. 
Come  forth,  come  forth,  prove  all  the  numbers  then, 
That  make  perfection  up,  and  may  absolve  you  men 


•slow,  slow,  fresh  fount,  keep  time  with  my  salt  teaks, 
yet  slower,  yet." — Page  13. 


JSen  5ort0on.  13 

But  show  thy  winding  ways  and  arts, 

Thy  risings,  and  thy  timely  starts 

Of  stealing  fire  from  ladies'  eyes  and  hearts. 

Those  softer  circles  are  the  young  man's  heaven, 

And  there  more  orbs  and  planets  are  than  seven. 

To  know  whose  motion 

Were  a  notion 
As  worthy  of  youth's  study,  as  devotion. 
Come  forth,  come  forth  !  prove 'all  the  time  will  gain, 
For  Nature  bids  the  best,  and  never  bade  in  vain. 


ECHO'S  LAMENT  OF  NARCISSUS. 

{From  "  Cynthia  s  Revels.") 

Slow,  slow,  fresh  fount,  keep  time  with  my  salt  tears  : 
Yet  slower,  yet ;  O  faintly,  gentle  springs  : 
List  to  the  heavy  part  the  music  bears, 
Woe  weeps  out  her  division,  when  she  sings. 

Droop,  herbs  and  flowers, 

Fall,  grief,  in  showers, 

Our  beauties  are  not  ours  : 
O,  I  could  still, 
Like  melting  snow  upon  some  craggy  hill, 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  drop, 
Since  nature's  pride  is  now  a  withered  daffodil. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED  MASTER, 
WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE,  AND  WHAT  HE 
HATH  LEFT  US. 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 
Wnile  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  man  nor  muse  can  praise  too  much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these  ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  would  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right; 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urges  all  by  chance; 
Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 


14  JBen  Jonson, 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed, 
Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  need. 
I  therefore  will  begin  :     Soul  of  the  age  ! 
The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage! 
My  Shakespeare,  rise  !     I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  further  off,  to  make  thee  room : 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 
And  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live, 
And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 
I  mean  with  great  but  disproportioned  muses : 
For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 
I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 
And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 
Or  sporting  Kyd  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line. 
And  though  thou  had  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 
From  thence  to  honour  thee  I  will  not  seek 
For  names ;  but  call  forth  thund'ring  ^Eschylus, 
Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 
Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 
To  live  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread, 
And  shake  a  stage;  or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 
Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 
Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 
Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 
Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  shew, 
To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 
He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time ! 
And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 
When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury,  to  charm  ! 
Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 
And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines ! 
Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  even  so  fit, 
As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 
The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 
Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please; 
But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 
As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 
Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  art, 
My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 
For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be, 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion  ;  and,  that  he 
Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat- 
Such  as  thine  are — and  strike  the  second  heat 
Upon  the  Muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same, 


JSen  3onscm.  15 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame; 

Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  a  scorn  ; 

For  a  good  poet  's  made  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert  thou  !  Look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue  ;  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well  turned  and  true  filled  lines : 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear, 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames 

That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James  ! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there ! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage, 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 

Which  since  thy  flight  from  hence  hath  mourned  like 

night, 
And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 


HYMN  TO  DIANA. 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep  : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear,  when  day  did  close  : 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  shining  crystal  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  heart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever  : 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, — 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


16  JBen  Sonson. 


THE  TRUE  GROWTH. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,  cloth  make  man  better  be  ; 

Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 

To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear  : 

A  lily  of  a  day 

Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

CHARIS'  TRIUMPH. 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  Lady  rideth  ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  clove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 
Unto  her  beauty  ; 

And  enamoured  do  wish,  so  they  might 
But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would  ride, 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead  's  smoother 
Than  words  that  soothe  her; 
And  from  her  archecl  brows,  such  a  grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  their  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  element's  strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver  ? 

Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 

Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  briar  ? 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
O  so  white, — O  so  soft, — O  so  sweet  is  she  ! 


'  HAVE   YOU    MARKED     BUT    THE    FALL    O'     THE    SNOW 
BEFORE    THE    SOIL    HATH    SMUTCHED    l^V'^-Page   16. 


JBen  Soneon.  17 

SONG. 

(A  Translation  from  the  Latin  of  Bonne fonins.} 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going-  to  a  feast  ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed  : 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found. 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free : 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art  : 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

BOAST  not  these  titles  of  your  ancestors, 

Brave  youths,  they're  their  possessions,  none  of  yours. 

When  your  own  virtues  equalled  have  their  names, 

'Twill  be  but  fair  to  lean  upon  their  fames  ; 

For  they  are  strong  supporters  ;  but,  till  then 

The  greatest  are  but  growing  gentlemen. 

It  is  a  wretched  thing  to  trust  to  reeds  ; 

Which  all  men  do,  that  urge  not  their  own  deeds 

Up  to  their  ancestors';  the  river's  side 

By  which  you're  planted,  shows  your  fruit  shall  bide. 

Hang  all  your  rooms  with  one  large  pedigree  ; 

'Tis  virtue  alone  is  true  nobility  : 

Which  virtue  from  your  father,  ripe,  will  fall ; 

Stqdy  illustrious  him,  and  you  have  all. 

ON  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  SHAKESPEARE -1623. 

This  figure  that  thou  here  seest  put, 
It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut, 
Wherein  the  graver  had  a  strife 
With  Nature,  to  outdo  the  life  ; 
Oh,  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit 
As  well  in  brass,  as  he  has  hit 
His  face,  the  print  would  then  surpass 
All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass  ; 
But  since  he  cannot,  reader,  look 
Not  on  his  picture,  but  his  book. 


l8  JBen  Soneon. 


LINES  FROM  CATILINE. 

It  is,  methinks,  a  morning  full  of  fate, 

It  riseth  slowly,  as  her  sullen  car 

Had  all  the  weights  of  sleep  and  death  hung  at  it ! 

She  is  not  rosy-lingered,  but  swollen  black, 

Her  face  is  like  a  water  turned  to  blood, 

And  her  sick  head  is  bound  about  with  clouds, 

As  if  she  threatened  night  ere  noon  of  day  ! 

It  does  not  look  as  it  would  have  a  hail, 

Or  health  wis'd  in  it,  as  on  other  morns. 


JEALOUSY. 

{From  "  Every  Man  in  His  Humour.") 

A  new  disease  !  I  know  not  new  or  old, 

But  it  may  well  be  called  poor  mortal's  plague; 

For  like  a  pestilence  it  doth  infect 

The  houses  of  the  brain.     First  it  begins 

Solely  to  work  upon  the  phantasy, 

Filling  her  seat  with  such  pestiferous  air 

As  soon  corrupts  the  judgment ;  and  from  thence 

Sends  like  contagion  to  the  memory  ; 

Still  each  to  other  giving  the  infection, 

Which  as  a  subtle  vapour  spreads  itself 

Confusedly  through  every  sensitive  part, 

Till  not  a  thought  or  motion  in  the  mind 

Be  free  from  the  black  poison  of  suspect. 


BEGGING   EPISTLE  TO  THE  CHANCELLOR  OF  THE 
EXCHEQUER. 

My  woful  cry 

To  Sir  Robert  Pye  ; 

And  that  he  will  venture 

To  send  my  debenture. 

Tell  him  his  Ben 

Knew  the  time  when 

He  loved  the  Muses  :  • 

Though  now  he  refuses 

To  take  apprehension 

Of  a  year's  pension, 

And  more  is  behind : 


Men  3onson*  19 

Put  him  in  mind 

Christmas  is  near, 

And  neither  good  cheer, 

Mirth,  fooling,  or  wit, 

Nor  any  least  fit 

Of  gambol  or  sport 

Will  come  at  the  Court ; 

If  there  be  no  money, 

No  plover  or  coney 

Will  come  to  the  table, 

Or  wine  to  enable 

The  Muse  or  the  Poet— 

The  Parish  will  know  it. 
Nor  any  quick  warming  pan  help  him  to  bed 
If  the  chequer  be  empty,  so  will  be  his  head. 


STRAY   THOUGHTS   FROM   JONSON. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace. 

The  Silent  Woman, 

Preserving  the  sweetness  of  proportion  and  expressing  itself 
beyond  expression- —  The  Masque  of  Hymen. 

In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

Good  Life,  Lotig  Life. 

That  for  which  all  virtue  now  is  sold 
And  almost  every  vice,  almighty  gold. 

Epistle  to  Elizabeth. 

Get  money,  still  get  money,  boy 
No  matter  by  what  means. 

Every  Man  in  his  Humour. 

Many  might  go  to  heaven  with  half  the  labour  they  go  to  hell, 
if  they  would  venture  their  industry  the  right  way.— Prose  Notes. 

Language  most  shows  a  man  :  speak  that  I  may  see  thee  :  it 
springs  out  of  the  most  retired  and  inmost  parts  of  us. — Ibid. 

Opinion  is  a  light,  vain,  crude,  and  imperfect  thing,  settled  in 
the  imagination,  but  never  arriving  at  the  understanding,  there 
to  obtain  the  tincture  of  reason. — Ibid. 


SIR  WILLIAM   DAVENANT. 

Born  in  Oxford  in  1605.     Made  laureate  in  1637.     Died  in  1668. 

(Reigns  of  Charles  I.  and  Charles  II.) 

Sir  William  Davenant,  whom  Southey  called  that  emi- 
nently thoughtful  poet,  passed  his  life  as  laureate  in  the  stirring 
and  exciting  days  which  preceded  and  followed  the  rebellion 
which  deprived  Charles  I.  of  his  throne  and  his  life.  But  Austin 
and  Ralph  remark  that  though  Davenant's  life  spanned  the 
mighty  chasm  which  separates  the  ancient  from  the  modern  of 
English  history,  his  character,  unlike  that  of  his  great  contem- 
porary Milton,  took  no  form  or  colour  from  the  solemn  events 
passing  around  him.  Davenant's  intellectual  work  was,  how- 
ever, notable.  He  contributed  to  found  a  new  literature.  Call- 
ing to  his  aid  the  music  of  Italy  and  the  scenery  of  France,  he 
undertook,  at  the  Restoration,*  to  also  restore  the  stage,  and 
though  he  readily  debased  or  refined  his  material  in  deference 
to  the  depraved  taste  of  the  age,  he  certainly  deserves  praise 
for  what  he  accomplished. 

Colley  Cibber  says  that  to  Davenant  the  English  stage 
"  stands  more  deeply  indebted  than  to  any  other  individual,  so 
far  as  zealous  application  deserves  to  be  considered  in  promot- 
ing those  rational  pleasures  that  are  fittest  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  a  civilised  people."  And  Cibber  said  this  with  all  due 
deference  to  the  inestimable  services  of  Shakespeare  and 
Jonson. 

The  father  of  Davenant  was  an  Oxford  innkeeper,  his  mother 
very  beautiful.  Rumour  busied  itself  with  uniting  the  name  of 
this  beautiful  woman  with  that  of  Shakespeare,  and  Davenant 
himself  often  seemed  to  wish  to  attribute  his  own  poetical  and 
dramatic  instincts  to  the  fact  that  his  father  was  other  than  the 
3taid  and  sober  innkeeper. 

The  boy  was  bright  and  lively,  with  a  handsome  face,  and  he 
did  well  at  the  Oxford  grammar  school,  and  matriculated  at 
Lincoln  College  at  sixteen.  But  he  never  was  graduated  :  his 
tastes  all  seemed  to  point  to  a  life  far  different  from  one  spent 
in  secluded  college  walls.  He  seemed  cut  out  to  be  a  courtier, 
and  towards  the  court  his  aspirations  early  converged. 

Therefore,  he  went  to  London,  and  winning  there  the  favour 


SIR    WILLIAM    DAVE N  A  NT. 


Sit  William  2>avenant.  21 

of  Lord  Brooke  he  was  admitted  to  the  inner  circle  of  society. 
In  obedience  to  the  prevailing  taste  of  the  age,  Davenant 
perceived  that  if  he  were  to  become  a  writer,  the  best  way 
to  win  distinction  at  court  was  to  write  plays.  Many  noble- 
men of  high  rank  whom  he  flattered  in  his  dedications  re- 
sponded by  their  unstinted  patronage,  and  the  numerous  plays 
and  masques  which  he  brought  out  with  great  industry  soon 
brought  him  fame  and  wealth.  Best  of  all,  he  sought  both  the 
friendship  and  the  advice  of  Ben  Jonson,  and,  all  things  con- 
sidered, it  seemed  natural  that  when  that  great  dramatist  died 
in  1637,  the  laurel  which  he  had  worn  with  so  much  honour 
should  be  given  to  his  young  associate.  But  Davenant  did  not 
win  this  distinction  at  once ;  for  many  months  the  office 
remained  in  abeyance,  and  when  at  last  he  received  the  appoint- 
ment he  had  several  formidable  rivals.  That  he  defeated  them 
all  does  not  necessarily  prove  that  he  was  a  better  poet.  The 
office  which  had  been  conferred  upon  Ben  Jonson  because  he 
was  the  foremost  man  of  letters  of  his  time,  ceased  with  Jonson 
to  have  this  peculiar  significance.  With  Davenant,  who  owed 
his  appointment  to  the  intercession  of  the  queen,  we  see  that 
the  Laureateship  was  beginning  to  be  more  a  mark  of  courtly 
favour  than  a  reward  for  poetic  merit.  After  Dryden's  death 
the  office  became  still  more  degraded. 

Davenant  not  only  served  the  crown  by  his  services  as 
laureate,  but  when  the  king's  fortunes  grew  dark  he  stood  firmly 
by  his  side,  winning  distinction  at  the  seige  of  Gloucester 
(where  he  was  knighted),  and  helping  the  queen  by  many  friendly 
and  delicate  services. 

Davenant's  political  as  well  as  literary  eminence  invited  many 
audacious  satirical  attacks.  The  lampoons  which  he  inspired 
were  oftentimes  directed  against  his  personal  appearance.  It 
is  not  known  how  it  happened,  but  the  face  which  in  youth 
had  been  distinguished  for  its  beauty,  was  marred  in  manhood 
by  the  loss  of  its  principal  feature.  One  of  the  most  painful 
of  the  many  insults  he  received  on  account  of  his  disfigured 
nose  was  when,  one  day,  he  refused  an  unworthy  woman  charity. 
Instead  of  her  curses  he  heard  her  beseeching  Heaven  to  spare 
his  eyesight.  His  attention  being  arrested  thus,  as  he  was 
passing  on,  he  told  her  that  his  eyesight  was  very  good.  Her 
reply  was  that  it  pleased  her  much  to  hear  this,  as  should  it 
ever  fail  he  would  be  in  a  sorry  plight,  as  he  would  then  have 
nothing  upon  which  to  rest  his  spectacles  !  Poor  Davenant's 
portrait  which  has  come  down  to  us  plainly  shows  this  dis- 
tressing disfigurement. 

When  the  Parliament  came  into  power  Davenant  fled  to 
France,  where  he  busied  himself  with  his  heroic  poem,  "Gondi- 
bert."     Embarking  after  a  time   for  the  New  World,  his  ship 


22  Sir  TPGUUfam  Davenant 

was  driven  by  a  storm  upon  the  English  coast.  The  poet  was 
made  prisoner  and  taken  to  London.  To  the  friendly  inter- 
cession of  Milton  he  probably  owed  his  life,  though  the  Tower 
held  him  captive  for  two  years.  "  Gondibert,"  which  he  had 
thought  was  to  be  interrupted  by  "  so  great  an  experiment  as 
dying,"  was  here  resumed,  and  the  sad  and  lonely  days  in  the 
Tower  were  cheered  by  this  congenial  work. 

Released  at  length,  he  plunged  with  zest  into  his  former 
theatrical  life,  but  he  was  now  the  deposed  laureate  and  had  to 
work  in  secret.  The  Puritan  reaction  had  closed  the  theatres, 
and  the  results  of  Davenant's  efforts  were  very  uncertain.  But 
his  aim  was  to  revive  the  stage,  and  he  worked  on  faithfully 
until  the  Restoration,  and  then  he  came  boldly  forth  from  his 
retirement.  He  opened  a  theatre  for  the  production  of  his  own 
plays,  where  he  introduced  many  novelties  in  scenery,  was  the 
author  of  many  innovations,  such  as  women  actors,  musical 
accompaniments,  etc.,  and  thus  the  progress  of  the  English 
drama  owed  much  to  this  industrious  worker. 

Davenant  was  the  first  to  begin  that  despicable  remodelling 
of  Shakespeare  which  Dryden,  Tate,  and  others  imitated  ;  but 
they  were  all  but  catering  to  the  depraved  taste  of  the  age, 
which  could  not  appreciate  the  higher  flights  of  genius.  "  The 
giant  race  before  the  flood  "  had  long  since  departed,  Shakes- 
peare and  Jonson  were  in  their  graves,  the  Elizabethan  age  was 
past  and  gone.  Mere  amusement  was  what  was  demanded  of 
the  poets  if  they  were  to  win  popular  approval.  The  people 
wanted  no  great  ennobling  work  of  art,  no  moral  strength  and 
dignity  on  the  stage. 

At  the  Restoration  the  laurel  had  been  again  placed  upon 
the  brow  of  Davenant,  and  he  wore  it  till  his  death  in  1668. 
His  last  days  were  quiet  and  uneventful,  much  happier  than 
those  of  Ben  Jonson,  and  the  end  came  in  peace.  His  life  had 
"  exhibited  a  moving  picture  of  genius  in  action  and  in  con- 
templation. With  all  the  infirmities  of  lively  passions,  he  had 
all  the  redeeming  virtues  of  magnanimity  and  generous  affec- 
tions," and  at  the  last  his  friends  laid  him  to  rest  in  the  sacred 
seclusion  of  the  grand  old  Abbey. 

Of  Davenant's  numerous  plays  it  would  be  impossible  to 
speak  in  detail.  They  are  energetic  and  bold  in  construction, 
show  novelty  in  imagery,  and  often  originality  in  the  analysis 
of  character.  They  teem  with  philosophical  reflections  and 
condensed  epigrams,  and  yet  they  lack  passion  and  fire,  and 
have  not  the  exalted  view  of  human  nature  and  of  the  earnest- 
ness of  human  life  which  is  shown  in  "  Gondibert."  Even  with 
Davenant  the  stage  began  to  take  its  downward  course.  And 
this,  in  spite  of  the  great  and  undeniable  services  he  rendered 
it.     With  all  his  talent,  Davenant  had  not  the  moral  force  to 


Sir  William  Davenant  23 

stem  the  tide  of  his  age.  He  could  not  dictate  to  it  like 
Jonson,  nor  was  he  unworldly  enough,  like  Milton,  to  go  se- 
renely on,  unmindful  of  its  applause  and  its  alluring  rewards. 

In  the  hands  of  dramatists  like  Wycherley,  Etheredge, 
Congreve,  and  Davenant's  successor  in  the  Laureateship, 
Dryden,  the  English  stage  became  a  mere  panderer  to  vice, 
well  meriting  the  vigorous  onslaughts  of  Jeremy  Collier. 

Milton  said  that  he  who  aspires  to  write  a  heroic  poem  must 
make  his  own  life  heroic.  Davenant  himself  said  that  he  who 
writes  a  heroic  poem  gives  a  greater  gift  to  posterity  than  to 
the  present  age.  Poor  Davenant  hoped  to  win  a  place  among 
the  immortals  by  his  "  Gondibert,"  but,  though  many  of  its 
fine  and  sonorous  phrases  live  in  the  language,  the  poem,  as  a 
whole,  is  seldom  read.  Yet  the  versatile  genius  of  Davenant 
claims  a  far  better  fate  for  this  poem  than  has  been  accorded 
it.  Disraeli  very  justly  calls  attention  to  the  new  vein  of 
invention  in  narrative  poetry  which  Davenant  opened  in  "  Gon- 
dibert." "  The  poet  styled  it  heroic,  but  we  have  since  called 
it  romantic."  Scott,  Byron,  and  Southey  worked  this  same 
vein  of  invention,  and  discovered  richer  treasures  than  ever 
came  within  the  ken  of  Davenant,  and  they  had  a  depth  of 
passion  also  unknown  to  him  ;  but  he  was  the  pioneer,  and 
should,  for  his  originality,  receive  due  praise.  Davenant's  work 
has  neither  the  vitality  nor  the  permanence  of  the  best  work 
of  Jonson,  and  therefore  it  has  not  withstood  the  disin- 
tegrating power  of  time.  But,  as  Disraeli  says,  one  of  the 
curiosities  in  the  history  of  our  poetry  is  this  very  poem,  which 
is  now  nearly  forgotten  by  the  world  :  "  The  fortunes  and  the 
fate  of'  this  epic  are  as  extraordinary  as  the  poem  itself. 
Davenant  had  viewed  human  life  in  all  its  shapes,  and  had 
himself  taken  them.  A  poet  and  a  wit,  the  creator  of  the 
English  stage,  a  soldier,  an  emigrant,  a  courtier,  and  a  politi- 
cian, and  at  all  times  a  philosopher,  he  was,  too,  a  state  pris- 
oner, awaiting  death  with  his  great  poem  in  his  hand." 


SELECTIONS  FROM   DAVENANT. 


TO    THE    QUEEN. 

Fair  as  unshaded  light,  or  as  the  day 

In  its  first  birth,  when  all  the  year  was  May  ; 

Sweet  as  the  altar's  smoke,  or  as  the  new 

Unfolded  bud,  swell'd  by  the  early  dew  ; 

Smooth  as  the  face  of  waters  first  appear'd, 

Ere  tides  began  to  strive  or  winds  were  heard  ; 

Kind  as  the  willing  saints,  or  calmer  far 

Than  in  their  sleeps  forgiven  hermits  are. 

You  that  are  more  than  our  discreeter  fear 

Dares  praise,  with  such  full  art,  what  make  you  here  ? 

Here,  where  the  summer  is  so  little  seen, 

That  leaves,  her  cheapest  wealth,  scarce  reach  at  green 

You  came,  as  if  the  silver  planet  were 

Misled  awhile  from  her  much-injured  sphere; 

And  t'  ease  the  travels  of  her  beams  to-night, 

In  this  small  lanthorn  would  contract  her  light. 


SONG. 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest, 
And,  climbing,  shakes  his  dewy  wings; 

He  takes  this  window  for  the  east ; 
And  to  implore  your  light,  he  sings, 

Awake,  awake  !  the  morn  will  never  rise, 

Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your  eyes. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star, 
The  ploughman  from  the  sun  his  season  takes; 

But  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are, 
Who  look  for  day  before  his  mistress  wakes. 

Awake,  awake!  break  through  your  veils  of  lawn, 

Then  draw  your  curtains  and  begin  the  dawn. 


Sir  William  Davenant.  25 

PRAYER    AND    PRAISE. 

FOR  Prayer  the  ocean  is,  where  diversely 
Men  steer  their  course,  each  to  a  different  coast, 
Where  oft  our  interests  so  discordant  be, 
That  half  beg  winds  by  which  the  rest  are  lost. 

Praise  is  devotion  fit  for  mighty  minds, 
The  diff'ring  World's  agreeing  sacrifice. 


ON  A  SOLDIER  GOING  TO  THE  WARS. 

Preserve  thy  sighs,  unthrifty  girl, 

To  purify  the  air  ; 
Thy  tears  to  thread  instead  of  pearl, 

On  bracelets  of  thy  hair. 

The  trumpet  makes  the  echo  hoarse, 
And  wakes  the  louder  drum  ; 

Expense  of  grief  gains  no  remorse 
When  sorrow  should  be  dumb. 

For  I  must  go  where  lazy  Peace 

Will  hide  her  drowsy  head  ; 
And,  for  the  sport  of  kings,  increase 

The  number  of  the  dead. 

But  first  I'll  chide  thy  cruel  theft  : 

Can  I  in  war  delight, 
Who,  being  of  my  heart  bereft, 

Can  have  no  heart  to  fight? 

Thou  knows't  the  sacred  laws  of  old 

Ordained  a  thief  should  pay, 
To  quit  him  of  his  theft,  sevenfold 

What  he  had  stol'n  away. 

Thy  payment  shall  but  double  be, 

O  then  with  speed  resign 
My  own  seduced  heart  to  me, 

Accompany'd  with  thine. 


26  Sir  TOlliam  2>avenant. 

WEEP  NO  MORE  FOR  WHAT  IS  PAST. 

{From  "  The  Cruel  Brothers.") 

Weep  no  more  for  what  is  past, 
For  Time  in  motion  makes  such  haste 
He  hath  no  leisure  to  descry 
Those  errors  which  he  passeth  by. 
If  we  consider  accident, 

And  how  repugnant  unto  sense 
It  pays  desert  with  bad  event, 

We  shall  disparage  Providence. 


CURSED  JEALOUSY. 

This  cursed  jealousy,  what  is't  ? 

'Tis  Love  that  has  lost  itself  in  a  mist ; 

'Tis  Love  being  frighted  out  of  his  wits  ; 

'Tis  Love  that  has  a  fever  got ; 

Love  that  is  violently  hot, 

But  troubled  with  cold  and  trembling  fits. 

'Tis  yet  a  more  unnatural  evil, 

'Tis  the  god  of  Love,  'tis  the  god  of  Love, 

Possessed  with  a  devil. 


ON  THE  CAPTIVITY  OF  THE  COUNTESS  OF 
ANGLESEY. 

O  WHITHER  will  you  lead  the  fair 
And  spicy  daughter  of  the  morn? 

Those  manacles  of  her  soft  hair, 

Princes,  though  free,  would  fain  have  worn. 

What  is  her  crime  ?  what  has  she  done? 

Did  she,  by  breaking  beauty,  stay, 
Or  from  his  course  mislead  the  sun, 

So  robbed  your  harvest  of  a  day  ? 

Or  did  her  voice,  divinely  clear, 

Since  lately  in  your  forest  bred, 
Make  all  the  trees  dance  after  her, 

And  so  your  woods  disforested  ? 


Sir  William  Bavenant*  27 

BALLAD. 
{From  "  The  Rivals.") 

My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground, 

And  very  hard  is  my  fare  ; 
But  that  which  troubles  me  most  is 

The  unkindness  of  my  dear  ; 
Yet  still  I  cry,  O  turn,  love, 

And  I  prithee,  love,  turn  to  me, 
For  thou  art  the  man  that  I  long  for, 

And,  alack  !  what  remedy  ! 

I'll  crown  thee  with  a  garland  of  straw  then, 

And  I'll  marry  thee  with  a  rush  ring; 
My  frozen  hopes  shall  thaw  then, 

And  merrily  we  will  sing. 
O  turn  to  me,  my  dear  love, 

And  I  prithee,  love,  turn  to  me, 
For  thou  art  the  man  who  alone  can'st 

Procure  my  liberty. 

But  if  thou  wilt  harden  thy  heart  still, 

And  be  deaf  to  my  pitiful  moan, 
Then  I  must  endure  the  smart  still, 

And  lie  in  my  straw  all  alone. 
Yet  still  I  cry,  O  turn  love, 

And  I  prithee,  love,  turn  to  me, 
For  thou  art  the  man  that  alone  art 

The  cause  of  my  misery. 

PLATONIC  LOVERS. 

How  sad  and  dismal  sound  the  farewells  which 

Poor  lovers  take,  whom  destiny  disjoins, 

Although  they  know  their  absence  will  be  short ; 

And  when  they  meet  again  how  musical 

And  sweet  are  all  the  mutual  joys  they  breathe  ! 

Like  birds,  who  when  they  see  the  weary  sun 

Forsake  the  world,  they  lay  their  little  heads 

Beneath  their  wings,  to  ease  that  weight  which  his 

Departure  adds  unto  their  grief. 

'Tis  true,  my  love  :  But  when  they  see  that  bright 

Perpetual  traveller  return,  they  warm 

And  air  their  feathers  at  his  beams,  and  sing 

Until  their  gratitude  hath  made  them  hoarse. 


28  Sir  TWUlUam  2>avenant. 

STRAY  SELECTIONS  FROM  DAVENANT. 
Care  visits  cities,  but  she  dwells  in  thrones. 

Rich  are  the  diligent,  who  can  command 

Time,  nature's  stock,  and  could  his  hour-glass  fall, 

Would,  as  for  seed  of  stars,  stoop  for  the  sand, 
And  by  incessant  labour  gather  all. 

The  laws,  men  from  themselves,  and  not  from  power,  secure. 

A  library  :  a  monument  of  vanished  minds. 

Truth's  a  discovery  of  travelling  minds. 

Honour's  the  moral  conscience  of  the  great. 

They  grow  so  certain  as  to  need  no  hope. 

The   pious   man   served  Heaven   with    praise,  the  world  with 
prayer. 

All  that  God  did  e'er  invent,  or  breath  inspired, 
Or  flying  fingers  touched  into  a  voice  are  here. 

A  library  : 

Where  they  thought  they  saw 

The  assembled  souls  of  all  that  men  held  wise. 

This  Florentine  's  a  very  saint,  so  meek 
And  full  of  courtesy,  that  he  would  lend 
The  devil  his  cloak,  and  stand  i'  th'  rain  himself. 

Since  Knowledge  is  but  Sorrow's  spy 
It  is  not  safe  to  know. 

— Go7idibert. 


CONSCIENCE. 

For  though  the  judge,  Conscience  makes  no  show, 
But  silently  to  her  dark  session  comes, 

Not  as  red  law  does  to  arraignment  go, 
Or  war  to  execution,  with  loud  drums. 

Though  she  on  hills  sets  not  her  gibbets  high, 

Where  frightful  Law  sets  hers  ;  nor  bloody  seems, 

Like  war  in  colours  spread,  yet  secretly 

She  does  her  work,  and  many  men  condemns ; 


Sir  William  Davenant.  29 

Chokes  in  the  seed  what  Law,  till  ripe,  ne'er  sees ; 

What  Law  would  punish,  Conscience  can  prevent ; 
And  so  the  world  from  many  mischiefs  frees  ; 

Known  by  her  cures,  as  Law  by  punishment. 


CHARACTER  AND  LOVE   OF   BIRTHA. 

( Extracts  from  * '  Gondibert. ' ') 

To  Astragon,  Heaven  for  succession  gave 
One  only  pledge,  and  Birtha  was  her  name  ; 

Whose  mother  slept,  where  flowers  grew  on  her  grave, 
And  she  succeeded  her  in  face  and  name. 

She  never  had  in  busy  cities  been, 

Ne'er  warm'd  with  hopes,  nor  e'er  allay'd  with  fears ; 
Not  seeing  punishment,  could  guess  no  sin; 

And  sin  not  seeing,  ne'er  had  use  of  tears. 

But  here  her  father's  precepts  gave  her  skill, 
Which  with  incessant  business  rill'd  the  hours ; 

In  Spring,  she  gathered  blossoms  for  the  still  ; 
In  Autumn,  berries  ;  and  in  Summer,  flowers. 

Whilst  her  great  mistress,  Nature,  thus  she  tends, 
The  busy  household  waits  no  less  on  her  : 

By  secret  law,  each  to  her  beauty  bends; 
Though  all  her  lowly  mind  to  that  prefer. 

The  just  historians  Birtha  thus  express, 
And  tell  how,  by  her  sire's  example  taught, 

She  served  the  wounded  duke  in  life's  distress, 
And  his  fled  spirits  back  by  cordials  brought ; 

Black  melancholy  mists,  that  fed  despair, 

Through  wounds'  long  rage,  with  sprinkled  vervain 
clear'd  ; 

Strew'd  leaves  of  willow  to  refresh  the  air, 

And  with  rich  fumes  his  sullen  senses  cheer'd. 

He  that  had  served  great  Love  with  reverend  heart, 
In  these  old  wounds  worse  wounds  from  him  endures; 

For  Love  makes  Birtha  shift  with  Death  his  dart, 
And  she  kills  faster  than  her  father  cures. 


3<>  Sir  TMillfam  Davcnant 

Her  heedless  innocence  as  little  knew 

The  wounds  she  gave,  as  those  from  Love  she  took ; 
And  Love  lifts  high  each  secret  shaft  he  drew ; 

Which  at  their  stars  he  first  in  triumph  shook. 

Love  he  had  lik'd  but  never  lodg'd  before ; 

But  finds  him  now  a  bold  unquiet  guest ; 
Who  climbs  to  windows  when  we  shut  the  door; 

And,  enter'd,  never  lets  the  master  rest. 

Soon  her  opinion  of  his  hurtless  heart 

Affection  turns  to  faith  ;  and  then  love's  fire 

To  heaven,  though  bashfully,  she  does  impart ; 
And  to  her  mother  in  the  heavenly  choir. 

If  I  do  love  (said  she),  that  love,  O  Heaven  ! 

Your  own  disciple,  Nature,  bred  in  me ; 
Why  should  I  hide  the  passion  you  have  given, 

Or  blush  to  show  effects  which  you  decree  ? 

This  said,  her  soul  into  her  breast  retires ; 

With  Love's  vain  diligence  of  heart  she  dreams 
Herself  into  possession  of  desires, 

And  trusts  unanchor'd  Hope  in  fleeting  streams : 

She  thinks  of  Eden-life  ;  and  no  rough  wind 
In  their  pacific  sea  shall  wrinkles  make ; 

That  still  her  lowliness  shall  keep  him  kind, 
Her  cares  keep  him  asleep,  her  voice  awake. 

She  thinks  if  ever  anger  in  him  sway 

(The  youthful  warrior's  most  excused  disease), 

Such  chance  her  tears  shall  calm,  as  showers  allay 
The  accidental  rage  of  winds  and  seas. 

Thus  to  herself  in  day-dreams  Birtha  talks  : 

The  duke  (whose  wounds  of  war  are  healthful  grown), 

To  cure  Love's  wounds,  seeks  Birtha  where  she  walks  : 
Whose  wandering  soul  seeks  him  to  cure  her  own. 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


Born  in  Aldwinckle,  Northamptonshire,  in  1631.  Made  laureate  in  1670,  two 
years  after  the  death  of  Davenant.     Deposed  at  the  Revolution.     Died  in  1700. 

(Reigns  of  Charles  II.  and  James  II.) 

"  POETRY,  to  be  just  to  itself,  ought  always  to  precede  and 
be  the  herald  of  improvement,"  wrote  Longfellow  years  ago 
in  the  pages  of  the  North  America?i  Review.  How  little 
Dryden's  work  was  the  herald  of  improvement  every  earnest 
student  of  literature  feels  keenly.  All  his  influence  seemed  to 
hasten  the  downward  course  of  poetry  in  England.  Dryclen 
was  neither  true  to  himself  nor  to  his  genius.  His  splendid 
endowments  fitted  him  to  be  a  dictator  to  mankind,  and  he  was 
himself  governed  by  the  worst  tendencies  of  his  age.  A  superb 
reasoner;  a  critic  of  learning  and  ability,  possessing  powers  of 
satire  which  have  never  been  surpassed;  master  of  a  prose 
style  which  was  sinewy,  flexible,  and  eloquent,  and  of  a  poetical 
versification  remarkable  for  its  clearness,  its  grace,  its  com- 
mand of  variations  in  metre— yet  to  Dryden  there  was  not 

*'  That  sublimer  inspiration  given 
That  glows  in  Shakespeare's  or  in  Milton's  page — 
The  pomp  and  prodigality  of  Heaven." 

The  record  of  Dryden's  life  proves  that  it  was  clearly  his  own 
choice  that  he  missed  the  highest.  The  poetical  achievement 
and  moral  dignity  of  his  great  contemporary,  Milton,  show 
that  a  man  may,  if  he  choose,  emancipate  himself  from  the 
influences  of  his  age,  and  stem  the  tide  of  its  evil.  But  in 
Dryden,  from  first  to  last,  we  see  a  lack  of  earnestness,  of 
honesty  of  purpose,  of  "  belief  in  and  devotion  to  something 
nobler  and  more  abiding  than  the  present  moment  and  its 
petulant  need." 

Without  such  devotion  a  man's  work  cannot  be  called  truly 
great.  And  yet,  with  all  Dryden's  fatal  defects  of  soul,  his 
intellectual  services  cannot  be  ignored  : — he  has  been  justly 
called  both  the  glory  and  the  shame  of  our  literature. 

Dryden's  grandfather  was  a  baronet;  his  father  a  younger 
son  of  an  ancient  and  honourable  family,  whose  traditions  were 
all  Puritan.  Little  is  known  of  his  childhood,  except  that  he 
was  sturdy  and  precocious.     Sent   to  Westminster  school,  he 


32  3obn  Dr^Dcn. 

often  felt  the  "classic  rod"  of  Dr.  Busby,  but  the  boy's  tem- 
perament was  such  that  neither  punishments  nor  abuse  had 
much  power  to  affect  his  serene  self-confidence.  He  was  very 
susceptible  to  praise,  and  in  this  we  see  the  root  of  his  subse- 
quent literary  methods. 

Dryden  did  not  win  many  honours  at  Cambridge,  whither  he 
went  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  but  he  took  his  degree;  and  then, 
as  his  income  was  very  small,  he  went  to  live  in  London  as 
secretary  to  a  kinsman.  Here  his  career  began.  All  his 
interests  were  with  the  Puritan  party,  and  on  the  death  of  Crom- 
well he  wrote  an  elegy  strong  in  praise  of  republicanism.  But 
Dryden  was  bent  on  personal  advancement,  and  for  the  true 
welfare  of  England  he  had  little  regard ;  at  heart  he  was  a 
time-server  and  a  political  and  religious  turncoat.  At  the 
Restoration  his  hopes  from  the  Puritan  party  were  frustrated, 
and  among  the  flatterers  who  sang  the  glories  of  the  old  order 
of  things,  he  stood  pre-eminent.  In  "  Astrea  Redux,"  and  other 
poems  about  Charles  II.,  Dryden 's  tributes  to  the  king's  virtues 
and  god-like  qualities  might  almost  rank  as  satire,  if  that  were 
possible. 

In  the  beginning  of  Dryden's  career  he  married  a  woman  of 
rank  and  beauty,  but  little  happiness  came  to  him.  Lady 
Elizabeth  Howard  was  quick-tempered,  and  he  was  not  domestic 
in  his  tastes,  and  much  friction  was,  therefore,  the  inevitable 
result.  A  man  who,  to  his  wife's  wish  that  she  were  a  book 
that  she  might  have  more  of  his  company,  could  reply  :  "  Be  an 
almanac  then,  my  dear,  that  I  may  change  you  once  a  year," 
could  not  be  called  a  model  husband. 

Attracted  to  the  stage  in  the  same  way  as  Davenant  had 
been,  Dryden  brought  out  his  first  play  in  1662,  but  it  fell  flat. 
Successful  with  his  third,  and  wishing  to  win  the  favour  of  a 
king  who  advocated  the  use  of  rhyme,  Dryden  soon  began 
those  rhyming  dramas  which  have  been  so  justly  condemned. 
Pepys,  though  he  censured  the  rhyme  as  breaking  the  sense, 
said  that  he  and  his  wife  returned  home  after  the  performance 
of  one  of  these  plays  before  the  king,  mightily  contented. 

Dryden's  plays  were  artificial ;  showed  no  insight  into 
character  ;  no  pathos  or  tenderness,  and,  worst  of  all,  they  were 
disfigured  by  those  obscenities  which  make  them  utterly  unfit 
to  be  read.     Pepys  pronounced  many  of  them  "very  smutty." 

During  the  year  of  the  fire  and  the  plague,  when  the  theatres 
were  closed,  Dryden  wrote  that  work  which  has  won  him  dis- 
tinction as  a  critic,  "  The  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy."  In  this 
he  defended  the  use  of  rhyme,  but  profiting  by  the  parodies  of 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  Dryden  soon  changed  his  opinion  of 
rhyme,  and  we  find  that  whenever  he  employed  blank  verse  he 
gained  in  both  depth  and  range. 


5obn  Drg&em  33 

Dryden's  "  Essay  on  the  Grounds  of  Criticism  in  Tragedy," 
in  which  he  paid  tributes  to  the  Shakespearean  drama,  show 
him  with  all  his  ethical  limitations  to  have  possessed  an  intel- 
lectual breadth  and  accessibility  to  ideas  very  essential  in  a 
critic.  In  these  essays,  and  his  numerous  dedications  and  pref- 
aces, we  see  Dryden's  decided  power  as  a  writer  of  prose. 

In  1670,  two  years  after  the  death  of  Davenant,  Dryden  was 
made  laureate.  The  appointment  of  Historiographer  added 
another  hundred  pounds  to  his  income.  But  the  court  favour, 
which  had  first  been  obtained  by  being  false  to  hereditary  tra- 
ditions, could  only  be  kept  by  obedience  to  the  same  methods. 
When  James  II.  came  to  the  throne,  Dryden,  probably  to 
please  him,  became  a  Roman  Catholic.  But  the  poet  who 
with  such  eloquence  had  upheld  the  Church  of  England  in 
"  Religio  Laici,"  and  the  Church  of  Rome  in  "  The  Hind  and 
Panther,"  could  not,  with  any  dignity,  recant  in  the  short 
space  of  three  years  and  swear  allegiance  to  the  Protestant 
William.  Therefore,  at  the  Revolution,  which  deprived  James 
of  his  crown,  poor  Dryden  was  left  out  in  the  cold.  The 
people  had  little  patience  with  the  Romanist  laureate.  Lord 
Dorset,  the  Lord  Chancellor,  was  compelled  to  yield  to  the 
popular  voice,  and  Dryden  was  deposed. 

In  1678  a  change  in  Dryden's  literary  methods  manifested 
itself,  which  resulted  in  works  of  greater  scope  and  individuality. 
After  this  we  have  his  great  satires,  his  best  plays,  his  odes, 
and  his  translations  and  Fables.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
speak  of  these  in  detail.  In  the  splendid  satire  "  Absalom  and 
Achitophel  "  Dryden  first  showed  the  hand  of  the  master.  He 
has  immortalised  his  literary  rivals  as  well  as  political  foes.  In 
"  MacFlecknoe  "  Dryden's  satire  became  still  more  caustic 
and  pointed,  but  many  of  his  hits  degenerate  into  caricature,  and 
prove  that  satire  is  one  of  the  falsest  of  guides.  From  Shad- 
well  himself  Dryden  might  have  learned  a  lesson  of  steadfast- 
ness and  political  constancy  which  would  have  done  him  good. 
It  must  have  been  hard  for  Dryden  to  have  had  the  Laureateship 
taken  from  him  and  given  to  the  very  man  whom  he  had  treated 
so  unjustly. 

Dryden  lived  eleven  years  after  the  loss  of  the  laurel,  and 
some  of  his  best  work  was  done  under  the  pressure  of  poverty, 
notably  that  magnificent  "  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,"  called  also 
"  Alexander's  Feast,"  which  was  the  finest  burst  of  his  lyrical 
genius.  Dryden  laboured  hard  at  his  translations  and  Fables, 
and  his  rewards  were  fame  and  money,  but  even  during  the 
last  of  his  life  we  find  his  poetry,  with  all  its  intellectual  subtlety, 
its  felicity  of  style,  its  charm  and  its  power,  disfigured  by  that 
disregard  of  moral  purity  and  dignity  which  was  a  feature  of 
the  poet's  own  character  and  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 


34  3obn  BrgOem 

When  Jeremy  Collier  attacked  the  stage,  of  course  his  vigor- 
ous criticism  touched  the  literary  lion  of  the  day  whose  influence 
was  so  widespread  and  powerful.  Dryden  felt  the  criticism  to 
be  just,  and  with  singular  openness  of  mind  confessed  so 
publicly. 

Two  years  after  the  publication  of  Collier's  great  work, 
Dryden  died  of  an  inflammation  of  the  foot,  and  was  buried 
with  great  pomp  in  the  grand  old  Abbey.  It  is  almost  certain 
that,  had  he  lived,  we  should  have  had  poetry  from  his  hand 
purer  and  greater  than  any  which  he  had  written  before. 

William  Whitehead,  one  of  the  laureates  of  the  latter  end  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  thus  feelingly  painted  the  situation  of 
Dryden  in  his  last  days  : 

44  The  hapless  Dryden  of  a  shameless  age  ! 
Ill-fated  bard  !  where'er  thy  name  appears 
The  weeping  verse  a  sad  momento  bears  ; 
Ah  !  what  availed  the  enormous  blaze  between 
Thy  dawn  of  glory  and  thy  closing  scene?  " 

Leslie  Stephen  but  recently  wrote  of  Dryden  :  "  He  is  a 
master  within  his  own  sphere  of  thought.  But  there  is  some- 
thing depressing  about  his  atmosphere.  .  .  He  ought  to  be  on 
our  shelves,  but  he  will  rarely  be  found  in  our  hearts." 


SELECTIONS    FROM    DRYDEN. 


SONG  FOR  SAINT  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687. 

From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony 

This  universal  frame  began  : 

When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 

And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high 

Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  ! 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry 

In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 
And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony 

This  universal  frame  began  : 
From  harmony  to  harmony 

Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 

The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell 

His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 

To  worship  that  celestial  sound.  * 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangour 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms, 
The  double  double  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries  "  Hark  !  the  foes  come ; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat !  " 


36  Jobn  DrEfcert. 

The  soft  complaining  flute 

In  dying  notes  discovers 

The  woes  of  hapless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whisper'd  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 

Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 

Fury,  frantic  indignation, 

Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion 

For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 

But  oh  !  what  act  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach 
The  sacred  organ's  praise  ? 

Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race, 

And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre  : 

But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher: 

When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appear'd  — 

Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

GRAND   CHORUS. 
As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blest  above  : 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST  :  OR,  THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC, 
AN  ODE  IN  HONOUR  OF  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY, 
NOVEMBER,  1697. 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  : 

Aloft  in  awful  state 

The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne: 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around  ; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound  : 


THE     TREMBLING     NOTES     ASCEND     THE    SKY. 

—Page  37. 


5obn  Brgfcen.  37 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned). 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate,  like  a  blooming  eastern  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Timotheus  plac'd  on  high, 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 
With  flying  fingers  touch'd  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love). 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  bely'd  the  god ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  press'd  ; 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast ; 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curl'd, 
And  stamp'd  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the 

world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity,  they  shout  around  : 
A  present  deity  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound  : 
With  ravish 'd  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus,  then,  the  sweet  musician  sung, 

Of  Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  ever  young  : 

The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ; 

Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums  ; 

Flush'd  with  a  purple  grace, 

He  shows  his  honest  face  : 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath.     He  comes,  he  comes  ! 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain. 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 

Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  ; 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


38  Sobn  2>r£Den. 

Sooth'd  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain  ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 

And  twice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 

The  master  saw  the  madness  rise; 

His  gleaming  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes  ; 

And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defy'd, 

Chang'd  his  hand  and  check'd  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  muse 

Soft  pity  to  infuse : 

He  sung  Darius  great  and  good. 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmojt  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed  ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  alter'd  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below  ; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree: 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  sooth'd  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 
Honour  but  an  empty  bubble ; 
Never  ending,  still  beginning, 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 

Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying! 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was  crown 'd,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gaz'd  on  the  fair 
Who  caus'd  his  care, 
And  sigh'd  and  look'd,  sigh'd  and  look'd, 

Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppress'd, 
The  vanquish'd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


3obn  Brg&en.  39 

Now,  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  ; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark  !  the  horrid  sound 

Has  rais'd  up  his  head : 

As  avvak'd  from  the  dead  ; 
And,  amazed,  he  stares  around, 
Revenge,  revenge  !  Timotheus  cries  ; 
See  the  Furies  arise  ! 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair  ! 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  ! 

Behold  a  ghastly  br.nd, 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts  that  in  battle  were  slain, 

And  unbury'd  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain, 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy  : 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fir'd  another  Troy. 

Thus,  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learn 'd  to  blow, 

While  organs  yet  were  mute  ; 

Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 

And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarg'd  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 

He  rais'd  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 


4o  Jobn  2>rg&en. 


SELECTION  FROM  ELEONORA. 

No  single  virtue  we  could  most  commend, 
Whether  the  wife,  the  mother,  or  the  friend ; 
For  she  was  all,  in  that  supreme  degree, 
What  as  no  one  prevailed,  so  all  was  she. 
The  several  parts  lay  hidden  in  the  piece  ; 
The  occasion  but  exerted  that  or  this, 
A  wife  as  tender,  and  as  true  withal, 
As  the  first  woman  was  before  her  fall : 
Made  for  the  man,  of  whom  she  was  a  part : 
Made  to  attract  his  eyes,  and  keep  his  heart. 
A  second  Eve,  but  by  no  crime  accursed  ; 
As  beauteous,  not  as  brittle  as  the  first. 
Had  she  been  first,  still  Paradise  had  been, 
And  death  had  found  no  entrance  by  her  sin. 

Yet  unemployed  no  minute  slipped  away ; 

Moments  were  precious  in  so  short  a  stay. 

The  haste  of  Heaven  to  have  her  was  so  great 

That  some  were  single  acts,  though  each  complete ; 

But  every  act  stood  ready  to  repeat. 

Her  fellow-saints  with  busy  care  will  look 

For  her  blest  name  in  fate's  eternal  book  ; 

And,  pleased  to  be  outdone,  with  joy  will  see 

Numberless  virtues,  endless  charity  : 

But  more  will  wonder  at  so  short  an  age, 

To  find  a  blank  beyond  the  thirtieth  page  : 

And  with  a  pious  fear  begin  to  doubt 

The  piece  imperfect,  and  the  rest  torn  out. 

But  'twas  her  Saviour's  time  ;  and  could  there  be 

A  copy  near  the  original,  'twas  she. 

As  precious  gums  are  not  for  lasting  fire, 

They  but  perfume  the  temple  and  expire; 

So  was  she  soon  exhaled,  and  vanished  hence, 

A  short  sweet  odour  of  a  vast  expense. 

She  vanished,  we  can  scarcely  say  she  died  ; 

For  but  a  now  did  heaven  and  earth  divide : 

She  passed  serenely  with  a  single  breath  ; 

This  moment  perfect  health,  the  next  was  death  : 

One  sigh  did  her  eternal  bliss  assure  ; 

So  little  penance  needs,  where  souls  are  almost  pure. 

As  gentle  dreams  our  waking  thoughts  pursue  ; 

Or,  one  dream  passed,  we  slide  into  a  new; 

So  close  they  follow,  such  wild  order  keep, 

We  think  ourselves  awake,  and  are  asleep : 


5obn  H)rEfcen.  41 

So  softly  death  succeeded  life  in  her: 

She  did  but  dream  of  heaven,  and  she  was  there. 

No  pains  she  suffered,  nor  expired  with  noise; 

Her  soul  was  whispered  out  with  God's  still  voice; 

As  an  old  friend  is  beckoned  to  a  feast, 

And  treated  like  a  long  familiar  guest. 

He  took  her  as  he  found,  but  found  her  so, 

As  one  in  hourly  readiness  to  go  : 

E'en  on  that  day  in  all  her  trim  prepar'd, 

As  early  notice  she  from  heaven  had  heard, 

And  some  descending  courier  from  above 

Had  given  her  timely  warning  to  remove  : 

Or  counselled  her  to  dress  the  nuptial  room, 

For  on  that  night  the  bridegroom  was  to  come. 

He  kept  his  hour,  and  found  her  where  she  lay 

Clothed  all  in  white,  the  livery  of  the  day. 


VENI  CREATOR  SPIRITUS. 

This  paraphrase  of  the  Latin  hymn  popularly  attributed  to  Charlemagne  was 
first  printed  in  Tonson's  folio  edition  of  Dryden's  Poems,  1701. 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 

The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid, 

Come,  visit  every  pious  mind  ; 

Come,  pour  thy  joys  on  human  kind  ; 

From  sin  and  sorrows  set  us  free, 

And  make  thy  temples  worthy  thee. 

Oh,  source  of  uncreated  light, 

The  Father's  promised  Paraclete  ! 

Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire, 

Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire  ; 

Come,  and  thy  sacred  unction  bring 

To  sanctify  us,  while  we  sing. 

Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 

Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy  ! 

Thou  strength  of  his  Almighty  hand, 

Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command. 

Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 

Who  dost  the  gift  of  tongues  dispense, 

And  crown'st  thy  gift  with  eloquence, 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts  ; 

But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts ! 

Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 

Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul  ; 


42  3obn  Drgfcem 

And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 
Then  lay  thy  hand,  and  hold  them  down. 
Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe, 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow ; 
And  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 
Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 
And  practise  all  that  we  believe  : 
Give  us  thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father  and  the  Son  by  thee. 
Immortal  honour,  endless  fame, 
Attend  the  Almighty  Father's  name: 
The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified, 
Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  died : 
And  equal  adoration  be, 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  thee  ! 


SELECTION. 

ALAS !  what  stay  is  there  in  human  state, 
Or  who  can  shun  inevitable  fate  ? 

The  doom  was  written,  the  decree  was  past, 
Ere  the  foundations  of  the  world  were  cast. 


LIMIT  OF  FATE. 

ON  what  strange  grounds  we  build  our  hopes  and  fears ! 
Man's  life  is   all  a  mist,  and  in  the   dark  our  fortunes 

meet  us. 
If  fate  be  not,  then  what  can  we  foresee  ? 
And  how  can  we  avoid  it  if  it  be  ? 
If  by  free  will  in  our  own  paths  we  move, 
How  are  we  bounded  by  decrees  above  ? 
Whether  we  drive,  or  whether  we  are  driven, 
If  ill,  'tis  ours  ;  if  good,  the  act  of  Heaven. 


THE  OLD  AGE  OF  THE  TEMPERATE. 

Some  few,  by  Temperance  taught,  approaching  slow, 
To  distant  fate  by  easy  journeys  go  : 
Gently  they  lay  them  down,  as  ev'ning  sheep, 
On  their  own  woolly  fleeces  softly  sleep. 


Vf 


•'the  fair,  but  short  lived  lily.' 
— Pare  43. 


3obn  BrgDen.  43 

So  noiseless  would  I  live,  such  death  to  find ; 
Like  timely  fruit,  not  shaken  by  the  wind  : 
But  ripely  dropping  from  the  sapless  bough, 
And,  dying,  nothing  to  myself  would  owe. 
Thus  daily  changing,  with  a  duller  taste 
Of  lessening  joys,  I  by  degrees  would  waste  : 
Still  quitting  ground  by  unperceiv'd  decay; 
And  steal  myself  from  Life,  and  fade  away. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

{From  '  'A  urengzebe. ") 

When  I  consider  life,  'tis  all  a  cheat ; 

Yet,  fool'd  with  hope,  men  favour  the  deceit: 

Trust  on^and  think  to-morrow  will  repay  : 

To-morrow's  falser  than  the  former  day  ; 

Lies  wbrse  ;  and  while  it  says  we  shall  be  blest 

With  some  new  joys  cuts  off  what  we  possessed. 

Strange  cozenage  !     None  would  live  past  years  again  ; 

Yet  all  hope  pleasure  in  what  yet  remain  ; 

And  from  the  dregs  of  life  think  to  receive 

What  the  first  sprightly  running  could  not  give. 


THE  INFANT. 

{From  "Lucretius.") 

Thus  like  a  sailor  by  the  tempest  hurled 

Ashore,  the  Babe  is  shipwrecked  on  the  World  ; 

Naked  he  lies  and  ready  to  expire, 

Helpless  of  all  that  human  wants  require  : 

Exposed  upon  inhospitable  Earth, 

From  the  first  moment  of  his  hapless  birth. 


BEAUTY  AND  YOUTH. 

Beauty  and  youth  are  frail :  their  charms  will  soon 

decay, 
Their  lustre  fades  as  rolling  years  increase, 
And  Age  still  triumphs  o'er  the  ruined  face. 
This  truth,  the  fair  but  short-lived  lily  shows, 
And  prickles,  that  survive  the  faded  rose. 


U  Jobn  S>r£&en. 

Learn,  lovely  Boy  :  be  with  instruction  wise; 
Beauty  and  youth  misspent  are  past  advice : 
Then  cultivate  the  mind  with  wit  and  fame : 
Those  lasting  charms  survive  the  fun'ral  flame. 


SELECTION. 

And  could  we  choose  the  time  and  choose  aright, 
'Tis  best  to  die  our  honour  at  the  height. 
When  we  have  done  our  ancestors  no  shame, 
But  served  our  friends,  and  well  secured  our  fame. 
Then  should  we  wish  our  happy  life  to  close, 
And  leave  no  more  for  fortune  to  dispose, 
So  should  we  make  our  death  a  glad  relief 
From  future  shame,  from  sickness,  and  from  grief. 
Enjoying  while  we  live  the  present  hour, 
And  dying  in  our  excellence  and  flower. 


REASON  AND  RELIGION. 

(From  4<  Religio  Laid") 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon  and  stars, 

To  lonely,  weary,  wandering  travellers, 

Is  Reason  to  the  soul ;  and  as  on  high 

Those  rolling  fires  discover  but  the  sky, 

Not  light  us  here,  so  Reason's  glimmering  ray 

Was  lent,  not  to  assure  our  doubtful  way, 

But  guide  us  upward  to  a  better  day. 

And  as  those  nightly  tapers  disappear 

When  day's  bright  lord  ascends  our  hemisphere, 

So  pale  grows  Reason  at  Religion's  sight, — 

So  dies,  and  so  dissolves  in  supernatural  light. 


A  SIMILE. 

Till,  like  a  clock  worn  out  with  beating  time, 
The  weary  wheels  of  life  at  last  stood  still. 


5obn  2>rgDen.  45 

MEN. 

(From  "All for  Love") 

MEN  are  but  children  of  a  larger  growth  ; 
Our  appetites  as  apt  to  change  as  theirs, 
And  full  as  craving  too,  and  full  as  vain  ; 
And  yet  the  soul  shut  up  in  her  dark  room, 
Viewing  so  clear  abroad,  at  home  sees  nothing  ; 
But  like  a  mole  in  earth,  busy  and  blind, 
Works  all  her  folly  up,  and  casts  it  outward 
To  the  world's  view. 

THE  UNITY  OF  THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH. 

(From  '*  The  Hind  and  the  Panther."') 

One  in  herself,  not  rent  by  schism  or  sound, 

Entire,  one  solid  shining  diamond, 

Not  sparkles  shattered  into  sects  like  you  : 

One  is  the  Church,  and  must  be  to  be  true, 

One  central  principle  of  unity  ; 

As  undivided,  so  from  errors  free  ; 

As  one  in  faith,  so  one  in  sanctity. 

Thus  she,  and  none  but  she,  the  insulting  rage 

Of  heretics  opposed  from  age  to  age ; 

Still,  when  the  giant-brood  invades  her  throne, 

She  stoops  from  heaven  and  meets  them  half  way  down, 

And  with  paternal  thunder  vindicates  her  crown. 

But  like  Egyptian  sorcerers  you  stand, 

And  vainly  lift  aloft  your  magic  wand 

To  sweep  away  the  swarms  of  vermin  from  the  land. 

You  could  like  them,  with  like  infernal  force, 

Produce  the  plague,  but  not  arrest  the  course. 

But  when  the  boils  and  blotches  with  disgrace 

And  public  scandal  sat  upon  the  face, 

Themselves  attacked,  the  magi  strove  no  more, 

They  saw  God's  finger,  and  their  fate  deplore ; 

Themselves  they  could  not  cure  of  the  dishonest  sore. 

Thus  one,  thus  pure,  behold  her  largely  spread, 

Like  the  fair  ocean  from  her  mother-bed  ; 

From  east  to  west  triumphantly  she  rides, 

All  shores  are  watered  by  her  wealthy  tides. 

The  Gospel-sound,  diffused  from  pole  to  pole, 

Where  winds  can  carry  and  where  waves  can  roll, 

The  self-same  doctrine  of  the  sacred  page 

Conveyed  to  every  clime,  in  every  age. 


4^  3obn  2>rg&en. 


FROM  RIVAL  LADIES. 

My  soul  lies  hid  in  shades  of  grief, 

Whence,  like  the  bird  of  night,  with  half-shut  eyes 

She  peeps,  and  sickens  at  the  sight  of  day. 


AH,  HOW  SWEET! 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love! 

Ah,  how  gay  is  young  desire  ! 
And  what  pleasing  pains  we  prove 

When  we  first  approach  love's  fire ! 
Pains  of  love  are  sweeter  far 
Than  all  other  pleasures  are. 

Sighs  which  are  from  lovers  blown 
Do  but  gently  heave  the  heart : 

E'en  the  tears  they  shed  alone 

Cure,  like  trickling  balm,  their  smart. 

Lovers,  when  they  lose  their  breath, 

Bleed  away  in  easy  death. 

Love  and  time  with  reverence  use, 
Treat  them  like  a  parting  friend  ; 

Nor  the  golden  gifts  refuse 

Which  in  youth  sincere  they  send ; 

For  each  year  their  price  is  more, 

And  they  less  simple  than  before. 

Love,  like  spring-tides  full  and  high, 
Swells  in  every  youthful  vein  ; 

But  each  tide  does  less  supply, 
Till  they  quite  shrink  in  again. 

If  a  flow  in  age  appear, 

'Tis  but  rain,  and  runs  not  clear. 


UNDER  MR.  MILTON'S  PICTURE,  BEFORE  HIS 
PARADISE  LOST. 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first,  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpass'd  ; 
The  next,  in  majesty  ;  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  further  go  ; 
To  make  a  third,  she  join'd  the  former  two. 


3obn  2>r£fcem  47 


SONG. 

Ah,  fading  joy  !  how  quickly  art  thou  past ! 

Yet  we  thy  ruin  haste. 
As  if  the  cares  of  human  life  were  few, 

We  seek  out  new  : 
And  follow  fate  which  would  too  fast  pursue. 

See  how  on  every  bough  the  birds  express 

In  their  sweet  notes  their  happiness. 

They  all  enjoy  and  nothing  spare, 

But  on  their  mother  nature  lay  their  care  : 

Why,  then,  should  man,  the  lord  of  all  below, 

Such  troubles  choose  to  know 

As  none  of  all  his  subjects  undergo  ? 

Hark,  hark  !  the  waters  fall,  fall,  fall; 

And  with  a  murmuring  sound 

Dash,  dash  upon  the  ground, 
To  gentle  slumbers  call. 

TRADITION. 

{From  "  Religio  Lata.") 

Must  all  tradition  then  be  set  aside  ? 
This  to  affirm,  were  ignorance  or  pride, 
Are  there  not  many  points  ;  some  needful  sure 
To  saving  faith,  that  Scripture  leaves  obscure, 
Which  every  sect  will  wrest  a  several  way  ? 
For  what  one  sect  interprets,  all  sects  may. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  ABSALOM  AND  ACHITOPHEL 

Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 

And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide ; 

Else  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honour  blessed, 

Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest  ? 

Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please, 

Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease? 

And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won, 

To  that  un feathered  two-legg'd  thing,  a  son  ; 

Got,  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try; 

And  born  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy. 

In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate  ; 

Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state. 


48  Sobn  DrgDen. 

Heaven  has  to  all  allotted,  soon  or  late, 
Some  lucky  revolution  of  their  fate : 
Whose  motions,  if  we  watch  and  guide  with  skill 
(For  human  good  depends  on  human  will), 
Our  fortune  rolls  as  from  a  smooth  descent, 
And  from  the  first  impression  takes  the  bent : 
But,  if  unseized,  she  glides  away  like  wind, 
And  leaves  repenting  folly  far  behind. 

Whate'er  he  did  was  done  with  so  much  ease ; 
In  him  alone  was  natural  to  please. 

A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way, 

Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay, 

And  o'er  informed  the  tenement  of  clay. 

A  daring  pilot  in  extremity ; 

Pleased  with  the  danger  when  the  waves  went  high, 

He  sought  the  storms. 

Heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal  song. 

Wild  ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  stand, 
And  fortune's  ice  prefers  to  virtue's  land. 

A  successive  title,  long  and  dark, 

Drawn  from  the  mouldy  rolls  of  Noah's  ark. 

Who  think  too  little  and  who  talk  too  much. 

His  tribe  were  God  Almighty's  gentlemen. 

Whose  weighty  sense 

Flows  in  fit  words,  and  heavenly  eloquence, 

Beware  the  fury  of  a  patient  man. 

To  show  his  judgment  in  extremes 

So  over  violent  or  over  civil, 

That  every  man  with  him  was  god  or  devil. 

Dashed  through  thick  and  thin, 

Through  sense  and  nonsense,  never  out  nor  in. 


Jobn  DrEfcem  49 

SHADWELL. 

{From  ' '  Mac  Flecknoe  " — 1682.) 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay, 

And,  when  Fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey. 

This  Flecknoe  found,  who,  like  Augustus,  young 

Was  called  to  empire  and  had  governed  long, 

In  prose  and  verse  was  owned  without  dispute 

Through  all  the  realms  of  nonsense  absolute. 

This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace, 

And  blest  with  issue  of  a  large  increase, 

Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  debate 

To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state; 

And  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 

To  reign  and  wage  immortal  war  with  wit, 

Cried,  "  Tis  resolved,  for  nature  pleads  that  he 

Should  only  rule  who  most  resembles  me. 

Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears, 

Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years  ; 

Shadwell  alone  of  all  my  sons  is  he 

Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 

The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence, 

But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense. 

Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall, 

Strike  through  and  make  a  lucid  interval ; 

But  Shadwell's  genuine  night  admits  no  ray, 

His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 

Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye, 

And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  majesty. 

Thoughtless  as  monarch  oaks  that  shade  the  plain, 

And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign. 

Heywood  and  Shirley  were  but  types  of  thee, 

Thou  last  great  prophet  of  tautology. 

Even  I,  a  dunce  of  more  renown  than  they, 

Was  sent  before  but  to  prepare  thy  way, 

And  coarsely  clad  in  Norwich  drugget  came 

To  teach  the  nations  in  thy  greater  name." 


STRAY   LINES   FROM   DRYDEN. 

For  truth  has  such  a  face  and  such  a  mien, 
As  to  be  loved  needs  only' to  be  seen. 

— Hind  and  Panther, 


5°  5obn  Brgbett 

Thus  all  below  is  strength  and  all  above  is  grace. 

— Epistle  to  Congreve. 

Better  to  hunt  in  fields  for  health  unbought, 
Than  fee  the  doctor  for  a  nauseous  draught. 
The  wise  for  cure  on  exercise  depend  ; 
God  never  made  his  work  for  man  to  mend. 

— Epistle  to  John  Dry  den. 

Wit  will  shine 

Through  the  harsh  cadence  of  a  rugged  line. 

—  To  the  Memory  of  Mr.  Oldham. 

Defend  against  your  judgment  your  departed  friend. 

— Epistle  to  Co7igreve. 

As  sure  as  a  gun. 

—  The  Spanish  Friar. 

Bless  the  hand  that  gave  the  blow. 

—  The  Spanish  Friar. 

Second  thoughts,  they  say,  are  best. 

—  The  Spanish  Friar. 

I  have  a  soul,  that  like  an  ample  shield 
Can  take  in  all. 

— Don  Sebastian. 

O  gracious  God  !  how  far  have  we 
Profaned  thy  heavenly  gift  of  poesy ! 

— Elegy  on  Mrs.  Killigrew. 

For  art  may  err,  but  Nature  cannot  miss. 

—  The  Cock  and  the  Fox. 

The  sweet  civilities  of  life. 

— Cymon  and  Iphigenia. 

Happy  who  in  his  verse  can  steer,  gently  steer 
From  grave  to  light,  from  pleasant  to  severe. 

—  The  Art  of  Poetry. 

Happy  the  man  and  happy  he  alone, 

He  who  can  call  to-day  his  own ; 

He,  who,  secure  within  can  say 

To-morrow  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  lived  to-day. 

— Imitations  of  Horace. 


Jobn  2>n>Den.  5r 

He's  a  sure  card. 

—  The  Spanish  Friar. 

Not  Heaven  itself  upon  the  past  has  power; 
But  what  has  been,  has  been. 

— Imitations  of  Horace. 

Virtue  though  in  rags  will  keep  me  warm. 

— Imitations  of  Horace. 

Errors  like  straws  upon  the  surface  flow, 

He  who  would  search  for  pearls  must  dive  below. 

— All  for  Love. 

Your  ignorance  is  the  mother  of  your  devotion  to  me. 

—  The  Maiden  Queen. 

But  Shakespeare's  magic  could  not  copied  be  ; 
Within  that  circle  none  durst  walk  but  he. 

— Prologue  to  The  Tempest. 

Forgiveness  to  the  injured  does  belong ; 

But  they  ne'er  pardon  who  have  done  the  wrong. 

■ — Conquest  of  Granada. 

All  delays  are  dangerous  in  war. 

—  Tyrannic  Love. 

Whatever  is,  is  in  its  causes  just. 

— CEdipus. 


THOMAS  SHADWELL. 

Born  at  Lanton  Hall,  Norfolk,  in  1640.  Made  laureate  in  1689,  after  the  Revo- 
lution.    Died  in  1692. 

(Reign  of  William  III.) 

When  Southeysaid  that  of  all  his  predecessors  Nahum  Tate 
would  rank  the  lowest  of  the  laureates  if  he  had  not  succeeded 
Shadwell,  he  was  scarcely  just ;  though  as  a  poet  Shadwell 
does  not  take  high  rank.  He  was  a  true  son  of  his  age,  and  he 
belonged  to  the  artificial  school  that  prevailed.  That  school, 
as  we  have  seen,  dealt  only  with  the  surfaces  of  things,  ignored 
the  depths  of  life,  the  mysteries  of  human  existence,  and  had 
little  appreciation  of  the  sublime  loveliness  of  the  outward 
world  ;  and  when  it  did  seek  to  describe  or  interpret  that  beauty 
in  nature,  it  did  so  "  under  the  guidance  of  sentiments  put  on 
for  the  most  part  like  a  stage  dress,  and  in  language  which 
seemed  not  to  belong  to  the  world  which  we  know." 

As  a  writer  of  plays  which  mirrored  the  fashions  and  ideas 
of  his  time  Shadwell  did  good  work.  But  Shadwell  had  not 
that  perseverance  in  detail  which  attains  perfection.  His  plays, 
with  all  their  unmistakable  cleverness,  are  not  symmetrical.  He 
began  well,  but  much  of  his  work  was  either  left  unfinished,  or 
finished  so  hastily  that  it  is  far  from  artistic.  Wycherley  used 
to  say  of  him  that  "  he  knew  how  to  start  a  fool  very  well,  but 
that  he  was  never  able  to  run  him  down."  And  Rochester 
alluded  to  the  same  defect  in  the  lines  : 

44  Of  all  our  modern  wits  none  seems  to  me 
Once  to  have  touched  upon  true  comedy, 
But  hasty  Shadwell  and  slow  Wycherley. 
Shadwell's  unfinished  works  do  yet  impart 
Great  proofs  of  nature's  force,  though  none  of  art ; 
With  just,  bold  strokes  he  dashes  here  and  there 
Showing  great  mastery." 

It  is  one  proof  of  a  man's  power  if  his  peculiarites  of  style,  or 
his  methods  of  delineating  character  or  social  conditions,  are 
imitated  by  his  successors.  One  of  Scott's  novels  is  obviously 
modelled  upon  Shadwell's  "  Squire  of  Alsatia,"  and  Scott  never 
hesitated  to  express  his  admiration  of  Shadwell's  talents.  It  is 
a  significant  fact  that  Macaulay  in  "  seeking  illustrations  of  the 
times  and  occurrences  of  which  he  writes,  cites  Shadwell  five 


THOMAS    SHADWELL. 


Gbomas  SbafcwelL  53 

times  where  he  mentions  contemporary  dramatists  but  once." 
In  the  nineteenth  chapter  of  his  history  he  quotes  a  whole  scene 
from  Shadwell's  "Stockjobbers." 

Otvvay  was  warm  in  his  praise  of  Shadwell  ;  and  Langbaine 
said:  "  I  own  I  like  his  comedies  better  than  Mr.  Dryden's,  as 
having  more  variety  of  characters,  and  those  drawn  from  the 
life."  The  truthfulness  of  Shadwell's  comedies  show  but  too 
well  the  state  of  society  of  the  time. 

There  had  been  a  great  change  since  the  era  of  rare  Ben 
Jonson.  The  delicate  airy  Masques  which  were  so  well  fitted 
to  reveal  his  lyrical  genius  had  now  ceased  to  be  the  favourite 
diversion.  Instead  of  truth  to  nature,  vivid  portraiture  of  char- 
acter, and  analysis  of  motives,  the  corrupt  court  of  Charles  and 
James  craved  amusement,  and  that,  of  the  most  dissolute 
kind.  Dryden,  who  had  been  so  willing  to  pander  to  the 
vices  of  the  court,  despised  and  underrated  Shadwell,  and  as 
far  as  morality  is  concerned,  Shadwell's  plays  are  no  better 
than  Dryden's.  He  preserved  the  old  coarse  traditions  of  the 
Restoration.  His  comedies  are  disfigured  by  that  grossness, 
that  rank  impurity,  which  makes  them  now  unfit  to  be  read. 
Yet  the  originality  and  humour,  the  brilliancy  and  sparkle,  of 
these  plays  made  him  one  of  the  most  popular  writers  of  the  age  ; 
and  he  showed  far  more  insight  and  real  power  than  Dryden. 
The  "  Lancashire  Witches  and  Teague  O'Divelly  "  held  the  stage 
many  years  after  Shadwell  had  bidden  life  a  last  farewell,  and 
this  after  the  taste  of  the  people  had  changed  and  become  purer 
and  more  healthful.  This  was  doubtless  owing  to  the  fine 
flashes  of  humour  in  the  play,  for  it  contains  one  of  the  earliest 
specimens  of  the  "  stage  Irishman  "  who  is  always  so  irresistibly 
attractive.  In  delineating  the  vices  and  follies  so  fashionable, 
Shadwell  showed  both  skill  and  wit,  but  many  times  he  conde- 
scended to  coarse  caricature.  His  aim  was  not,  like  Jonson,  to 
reform  and  change.  He  was  the  observer  and  the  painter, 
never  the  reformer  or  the  preacher.  From  an  unknown  hand 
came  the  Epilogue  to  Shadwell's  "  Volunteers  " — perhaps  he 
wrote  it  himself,  who  knows  ? 

"  Shadwell,  the  great  support  o'  the  comic  stage, 
Born  to  expose  the  follies  of  the  age. 
To  whip  prevailing  vices  and  unite 
Mirth  with  instruction,  profit  with  delight.'" 

But  his  popularity  was  owing  to  his  skill  in  delighting,  never 
instructing  his  audience. 

Shadwell  always  had  an  ardent  admiration  for  Ben  Jonson, 
and  called  him  the  greatest  dramatist  of  the  world.  Many  of 
his  own  plays  were  modelled  upon.  Jonson's  original  method  of 
bringing  into  prominence  certain  "  humours  "or  personal  eccen- 


54  Gbomae  SbabwelU 

tricities.  It  is  obvious  that  the  personification  of  single  pro- 
pensities does  not  result  in  the  creation  of  real  men  and  women, 
but  abstract  beings,  who  have  little  in  common  with  the  great 
mass  of  humanity.  Then,  though  Shadwell  was  a  quick 
observer,  he  did  not  see  far  beneath  the  surfaces  of  human  life. 
He  neither  knew  how  to  develop  character  nor  depict  its  more 
subtle  differences.  This  lack  of  intellectual  depth  affected  his 
estimate  of  Shakespeare.  In  1678  he  "  improved  "  "  Timon  of 
Athens,"  saying,  "  Shakespeare  never  made  more  masterly 
strokes  than  in  this,  yet  I  can  truly  say  I  have  made  it  into  a 
play."  This  attempt  of  Shadwell's  was,  in  Southey's  opinion, 
temerity  which  should  have  caused  his  bust  in  Westminster 
Abbey  to  have  been  cast  either  in  lead  or  in  brass,  or  an 
emblematic  amalgama  of  the  two  metals. 

As  a  laureate  Shadwell's  poetical  efforts  showed  little  origi- 
nality or  power.  It  was  he  who  first  inaugurated  the  Annual 
Birthday  Odes.  Each  laureate  who  came  after  continued  to 
furnish  a  poem  on  the  occasion  of  every  royal  birthday,  or  im- 
portant anniversary,  or  court  festival — his  "quit  rent  ode,  his 
peppercorn  of  praise,"  as  Cowper  teiAned  it, — until  Southey  him- 
self wisely  abolished  the  custom.  Avhen  Southey  was  offered 
the  laurel  he  expressed  the  wish  tlrat  the  appointment  might  be 
placed  on  a  footing  which  would  exact  from  the  holder  nothing 
like  a  schoolboy's  task,  but  leave  him  at  liberty  to  write  when 
and  how  he  pleased,  and  thus  rentier  the  office  as  honourable  as 
it  was  originally  intended  to  be.  / 

Shadwell's  odes  to  William  were  poor  enough.  Had  they 
been  better  it  is  doubtful  if  William  would  have  known  it. 

Shadwell's  life  was  uneventful.  Born  in  1640  at  Lanton  Hall 
in  Norfolk,  his  childhood  was  a  happy  one.  He  was  of  good 
family,  but  his  father's  fortune  had  been  greatly  reduced  by  the 
civil  war,  and  "Tom"  was  educated  for  the  bar.  After  a 
course  of  study  at  Cambridge  and  the  Inner  Temple,  he  went 
for  a  tour  on  the  Continent,  but  his  travels  but  increased  an 
unrest  and  dislike  of  steady  application  to  study  which  had  been 
evident  from  the  first.  He  returned  to  London  to  write  verses 
and  design  plays  rather  than  attend  to  his  profession.  The 
attractions  of  the  theatre  proved  too  alluring  for  his  pleasure- 
loving  temperament,  so  he  soon  gave  up  law  entirely,  frequented 
the  taverns  and  coffee  houses,  and  lived  a  life  of  alternate  dissi- 
pation and  earnest  devotion  to  literary  pursuits.  The  result 
of  that  devotion  was  seen  in  the  production  of  a  comedy 
every  year  after  he  had  once  won  fame  by  his  "  Sullen  Lovers." 
He  married  an  actress  whose  knowledge  of  the  stage  and  its 
requirements  was  of  great  help  to  him  in  his  work.  The 
marriage  was  a  happy  one,  and  to  the  generosity  of  his  son.  Sir 
John  Shadwell,  we  owe  the  monument  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


Gbomas  SbaDwelL  55 

Shad  well's  private  life  was  unfortunately  not  free  from  the  vices 
so  common  to  his  age  ;  but  politically  he  was  honourable,  stead- 
fast, and  sincere.  Always  a  "  true  blue  Protestant,"  no  hopes  of 
court  preferment  ever  had  the  slightest  power  to  tempt  him  to 
change  his  faith.  He  was  also  a  true  friend  and  an  open- 
hearted  enemy.  He  never  struck  an  opponent  in  the  back,  but 
faced  him  in  fair  fight.  He  and  Dryden  had  once  been  friendly 
enough  for  Dryden  to  write  one  of  Shadwell's  prologues,  but 
Dryden's  religious  apostasy  excited  Shadwell's  ire,  and  he 
attacked  Dryden  in  some  satirical  verses  which  were  never  for- 
given. Poor  Shad  well  paid  dearly  for  his  rashness.  The  injus- 
tice of  "  Mac  Flecknoe  "  has  been  a  serious  detriment  to  Shad- 
well's fame.  Dryden's  satire  hurt  him  in  the  same  way  as 
Pope's  "  Dunciad "  hurt  Cibber.  Dryden  and  Pope  were  so 
much  greater  than  either  Shadwell  or  Cibber  that  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  the  world  all  these  years  has  drawn  its  impression 
from  the  two  great  satires  rather  than  from  an  independent 
study  of  the  lives  or  works  of  Shadwell  and  Cibber.  Shadwell 
felt  in  a  measure  compensated  by  the  gift  of  the  laurel,  though 
he  was  too  magnanimous  to  ever  taunt  Dryden  with  his  mis- 
fortunes. He  was  laureate  only  four  short  years,  and  he  died 
eight  years  before  his  great  enemy.  The  end  was  due  to  an 
overdose  of  opium — sad  termination  to  a  dramatic  career  of 
unusual  brilliancy  and  influence.  Shadwell's  funeral  sermon 
was  preached  by  Dr.  Brady,  chaplain  to  the  king.  Old  Chelsea 
Church  was  thronged  by  a  sympathetic  audience,  and  many 
tears  were  shed  for  the  man  whose  life  had  not  all  been  spent  in 
selfish  pleasure,  but  had  diffused  itself  in  many  kindly  acts.  The 
sermon  dwelt  on  Shadwell's  political  integrity,  and  then  Dr. 
Brady  said  :  "  His  natural  and  acquired  abilities  made  him  very 
amiable  to  all  who  conversed  with  him,  a  very  few  being  equal 
in  the  becoming  qualities  which  adorn  and  set  off  a  complete 
gentleman  ;  his  very  enemies,  if  he  has  now  any  left,  will  give 
him  this  character,  at  least,  if  they  knew  him  as  thoroughly  as  I 
did."  Panegyrics  of  this  kind  are  not  always  to  be  trusted  ; 
but  we  can  feel  sure,  that  in  spite  of  Shadwell's  faults  as  a  man 
and  his  limitations  as  a  poet,  he  in  no  way  resembled  the  por- 
trait of  him  which  has  come  down  to  us  in  the  immortal  verse 
of  Dryden. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHADWELL. 


ODE     ON     THE    ANNIVERSARY    OF     THE      KING'S 
BIRTH. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  this  auspicious  morn 

On  which  the  great  Nassau  was  born, 

Sprung  from  a  mighty  race  which  was  designed 

For  the  deliv'rers  of  mankind. 

Illustrious  heroes,  whose  prevailing  fates 

Raised  the  distressed  to  high  and  mighty  states ; 

And  did  by  that  possess  more  true  renown, 

Than  their  Adolphus  gained  by  the  Imperial  crown. 

They  cooled  the  rage,  humbled  the  pride  of  Spain. 

But  since  the  insolence  of  France  no  less, 

Had  brought  the  States  into  distress, 
But  that  a  precious  scion  did  remain 
From  that  great  root,  which  did  the  shock  sustain, 
And  made  them  high  and  mighty  once  again. 
This  prince  for  us  was  born  to  make  us  free 
From  the  most  abject  slavery. 

Thou  hast  restored  our  laws  their  force  again  ; 
We  still  shall  conquer  on  the  land  by  thee ; 

By  thee  shall  conquer  on  the  main. 

But  thee  a  Fate  much  more  sublime  attends, 
Europe  for  freedom  on  thy  sword  depends  ; 
And  thy  victorious  arms  shall  tumble  down 
The  savage  monster  from  the  Gallick  throne  ; 
To  this  important  day  we  all  shall  owe, 
Oh  glorious  birth,  from  which  such  blest  effects  shall  flow. 
{General  chorus  of  voices  and  instruments!) 

On  this  glad  day  let  every  voice 

And  instrument  proclaim  our  joys, 
And  let  all  Europe  join  in  the  triumphant  noise, 

Io  Triumphe  let  us  sing, 

Io  Triumphe  let  us  sing, 
And  let  the  sound  through  all  the  spacious  welkin  ring. 

56 


Gbomas  SbaDwelL  57 

Thus  the  prophetic  muses  say, 

And  all  thy  wise  and  good  will  pray, 

That  they  long,  long,  may  celebrate  this  day. 

Soon  haughty  France  shall  bow,  and  coz'ning  Rome, 
And  Britain  mistress  of  the  world  become  ; 

And  from  thy  wise,  thy  God-like  sway, 

Kings  learn  to  reign,  and  subjects  to  obey. 


SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY. 

O  SACRED  harmony,  prepare  our  lays, 
While,  on  Cecilia's  day,  we  sing  your  praise, 
From  earth  to  heaven  our  warbling  voices  raise  ! 

Join  all  ye  glorious  instruments  around, 
The  yielding  air  with  your  vibrations  wound, 
And  fill  Heaven's  conclave  with  the  mighty  sound. 

You  did  at  first  the  warring  atoms  join, 
Made  qualities  most  opposite  combine, 
While  discords  did  with  pleasing  concords  twine. 

The  universe  you  fram'd,  you  still  sustain  ; 
Without  you,  what  in  tune  does  now  remain 
Would  jangle  into  Chaos  once  again. 

It  does  your  most  transcendent  glory  prove, 
That,  to  complete  immortal  joys  above, 
There  must  be  harmony  to  crown  their  love. 

Dirges  with  sorrow  still  inspire 
The  doleful  and  lamenting  choir, 
With  swelling  hearts  and  closing  eyes, 
They  solemnise  their  obsequies  ;  tit 
For  grief  they  frequent  discords  choose, 
Long  bindings  and  chromatics  use. 
Organs  and  viols  sadly  groan 
To  the  voices'  dismal  tone. 

If  Love's  gentle  passions  we 
Express,  there  must  be  harmony; 
We  touch  the  soft  and  tender  flute, 
The  sprinkling  and  melodious  lute, 


58  Gbomas  Sba&well. 

When  we  describe  the  tickling  smart 
Which  does  invade  a  love-sick  heart  : 
Sweet  nymphs  in  pretty  murmurs  plain, 
All  chill  and  panting  with  the  pleasing  pain, 
Which  can  be  eas'd  by  nothing  but  the  swain. 

If  poets  in  a  lofty  epic  strain, 

Some  ancient  noble  history  recite, 

How  heroes  love,  and  puissant  conquerors  fight, 

Or  how  of  cruel  fortune  they  complain  ; 

Or  if  the  muse  the  fate  of  empires  sings 

The  change  of  crowns,  the  rise  and  fall  of  kings ; 

CHORUS. 

This  sacred  music  does  impart 

Life  and  vigour  to  the  art ; 

It  makes  the  dumb  poetic  pictures  breathe, 

Victors  and  poet's  names  it  saves  from  death. 

How  does  the  thundering  martial  song 
Provoke  the  military  throng  ! 
The  hautboys  and  the  warlike  fife, 

With  clamours  of  the  deafening  drum, 
Make  peasants  bravely  hazard  life 

And  quicken  those  whom  fears  bemoan  ! 
The  clangour  of  the  trumpets'  sound 
Fills  all  the  dusty  place  around, 
And  does  from  neighbouring  hills  rebound  : 
To  triumph  when  we  sing, 
We  make  the  trembling  valleys  ring. 

GRAND   CHORUS. 

All  instruments  and  voices  fit  the  choir, 
While  we.enchanting  harmony  admire. 
What  mighty  wonders  by  our  arts  are  taught, 
What  miracles  by  sacred  numbers  wrought, 
On  earth  :  in  heaven,  no  joys  are  perfect  found, 
Till  by  celestial  harmony  they're  crown 'd^__>y 


FROM  THE  INNOCENT  IMPOSTORS. 

How  long  must  women  wait  in  vain 

A  constant  love  to  find  ? 
No  art  can  fickle  man  retain, 

Qr  fix  a  roving  mind. 


1  BUT     OH  !       THE     TORMENT    TO     DISCERN 
A  PERJURED   LOVER  GONE/' — Page  59. 


Gbomas  Sbafcwell.  59 

Yet  fondly  we  ourselves  deceive, 

And  empty  hopes  .pursue  : 
Though  false  to  others,  we  believe 

They  will  to  us  prove  true. 

But  oh  !  the  torment  to  discern 

A  perjured  lover  gone  ; 
And  yet  by  sad  experience  learn 

That  we  must  still  love  on. 

How  strangely  are  we  fool'd  by  fate, 

Who  tread  the  maze  of  love  : 
When  most  desirous  to  retreat, 

We  know  not  how  to  move. 


ON  DRYDEN'S  HEROIC  TRAGEDIES. 

BUT  of  these  ladies  he  despairs  to-day 
Who  love  a  dull,  romantic,  whining  play  : 
Where  poor  frail  woman's  made  a  deity, 
With  senseless,  fond  idolatry. 
And  love-sick  heroes  sigh  and  pine  and  cry, 
Though  singly  they  beat  armies  and  huff  kings, 
Rant  at  the  gods  and  do  impossible  things  ; 
Though  they  can  laugh  at  danger,  blood  and  wounds, 
Yet  if  the  dame  once  chides,  the  milksop  hero  swoons. 
— Epilogue  to  The  Virtuoso. 


SATIRICAL  LINES  ON  DRYDEN. 

How  long  shall  I  endure  without  reply, 

To  hear  this  Bayes,  this  hackney-rayler  lie? 

The  fool  uncudgelled  for  one  libel,  swells, 

Where  not  his  wit,  but  sauciness  excells  ; 

Whilst  with  foul  words  and  names  which  lie  lets  tlie, 

He  quite  defiles  the  satyr's  dignity. 

For  libel  and  true  satyr  different  be, 

This  must  have  truth  and  salt  with  modesty. 

Sparing  the  persons,  this  does  tax  the  crimes, 

Galls  not  great  men,  but  vices  of  the  times, 

With  witty  and  sharp — not  blunt  and  bitter  rhymes, 

Methinks  the  ghost  of  Horace  there  I  see, 

Lashing  this  cherry-cheeked  dunce  of  fifty-three. 

Who,  at  that  age,  so  boldly  durst  profane, 

With  base  hir'd  libel,  the  free  satyr's  vein.    .    . 


6o  Gbomae  Sbafcwell. 

An  oyster  wench  is  sure  thy  muse  of  late, 
And  all  thy  Helicon's  at  Billingsgate.    .    . 
As  far  from  satyr  does  thy  talent  lye, 
As  far  from  being  cheerful,  or  good  company  ; 
For  thou  art  Saturnine,  thou  dost  confess 
A  civil  word  thy  dulness  to  express.    .   . 
Now  farewell,  wretched,  mercenary  Bayes, 
Who  the  king  libell'd,  and  did  Cromwell  praise-, 
Farewell,  abandoned  rascal,  only  fit 
To  be  abused  by  thy  own  scurrilous  wit. 

—  The  Medal  of  John  Bayes. 


ON  BEN  JONSON. 

He  was  incomparably  the  best  dramatic  poet  that  ever  was, 
or,  I  believe,  ever  will  be  ;  and  I  had  rather  be  the  author  of  one 
scene  in  his  best  comedies  than  of  any  play  this  age  has  pro- 
duced. 

ON  BEN  JONSON. 

The  mighty  Prince  of  Poets,  learned  Ben, 
Who  alone  dived  into  the  minds  of  men, 
Saw  all  their  wanderings,  all  their  follies  knew, 
And  all  their  vain  fantastic  passions  drew. 
'Twas  he  alone  true  humours  understood, 
And  with  great  wit  and  judgment  made  them  good. 
— Dedication  to  The  Virtuoso. 


NAHUM   TATE. 

Born  in  Dublin  in  1652.     Made  laureate  in  1692.     Died  in  1715. 

(Reigns  of  William  III.,  Anne.,  and  George  I.) 

NAHUM  Tate  belonged  to  a  family  of  clergymen,  but  all  his 
tastes  were  for  a  life  radically  different  from  theirs.  He  had 
considerable  poetic  ambition,  though  his  soul  longed  the  most 
intensely  for  political  distinction.  A  son  of  Dr.  Faithful  Teat, 
who  afterwards  changed  his  name  to  Tate,  he  was  born 
in  Dublin,  passed  a  happy  childhood,  and  did  well  at  school 
and  managed  to  matriculate  at  Trinity  College,  but  he  'did 
not  distinguish  himself  for  his  scholarship,  and  it  is  not 
known  whether  he  took  his  degree.  Drawn  to  London  by  an 
irresistible  magnet,  he  left  his  native  city,  and  seldom  visited  it 
afterward.  When  he  first  began  to  try  his  fortunes  in  the  field 
of  literature  he  was  fortunate  in  securing  the  friendship  of  the 
great  Dryden,  and  through  him  he  soon  obtained  the  patronage 
of  Lord  Dorset.  Tate's  first  volume  of  poems  did  not  pay  him 
very  well,  so  he  began  to  write  for  the  stage.  With  the  ful- 
some flattery  so  common  among  all  the  poets  of  the  day,  he 
dedicated  his  first  tragedy  to  Lord  Dorset.  This  was  "Brutus 
of  Alba,  or  the  Enchanted  Lovers."  The  plot  was  a  curious 
blending  of  Virgil,  of  ancient  legendary  lore,  and  of  ideas  cur- 
rent in  the  reign  of  William  and  Mary.  The  dedication  to 
Dorset  and  the  prologue  written'  by  Dryden  helped  Tate  to 
such  an  extent  that  his  bark  seemed  well  launched  on  a  sea  of 
glory.  Tate's  object  was  no  higher  than  simply  to  entertain 
his  audiences.  There  was  no  lofty  moral  motive  to  his  work. 
He  wished  to  get  on  in  the  world,  he  would  therefore  drift 
with  the  tide  of  public  opinion  ;  he  aspired  to  the  favour  of  the 
rich  and  the  great,  therefore  he  would  not  venture  to  satirise  their 
weaknesses  or  vices.  He  would  simply  paint  life  as  he  saw  it, 
and,  by  adding  certain  imaginative  touches,  he  would  make  his 
picture  as  bright  and  charming  as  possible. 

The  most  popular  writers  of  the  day  did  not  scruple  to  take 
the  plots  of  Shakespeare  and  Jonson  and  other  old  dramatists, 
and  remodel  them  to  suit  their  own  convenience.  It  was  an 
open    secret   that    Tate    borrowed   right   and   left.     He   even 


62  IRabum  Gate* 

assumed  to  alter  Shakespeare.  Garrick  and  Colman  refused  to 
act  "  Lear  "  as  Tate  changed  it,  but  Kemble  preferred  Tate's 
version,  and  it  held  the  stage  for  many  years.  It  seemed  to  be 
from  no  lack  of  respect  that  Tate  thus  ventured  to  tamper  with 
the  great  master's  work.  He  only  sought  to  make  it  more  popu- 
lar with  an  age  that  in  many  respects  was  incapable  of  appreci- 
ating the  highest  and  best  in  dramatic  art.  That  Tate  adapted 
"  Richard  II."  and  "  Coriolanus,"  as  well  as  "  Lear,"  to  his  own 
notions  of  propriety,  excited  both  the  indignation  and  the  con- 
tempt of  Southey,  and  yet  he  felt  more  inclined  to  excuse  "poor 
Nahum,"as  he  called  him,  than  to  excuse  Dryden's  and  Daven- 
ant's  obtuseness  of  feeling — men  of  whom  loftier  poetic  ideals 
would  be  expected — when  they  joined  in  "  interpolating  '  The 
Tempest' with  their  own  base  inventions."  Tate  boldly  justi- 
fied his  alterations  of  "  Lear."  He  described  the  original  as  a 
heap  of  jewels  unstrung  and  unpolished,  which  he  could  reduce 
to  order  only  by  interpolating  the  text.  For  instance  he  intro- 
duced a  love  scene  between  Edgar  and  Cordelia  which  is  utterly 
foreign  to  the  spirit  of  the  tragedy ;  and  he  also  cut  out  many 
fine%and  noble  scenes.  Addison  considered  the  play  thus  lost 
half  its  beauty,  but  the  public  liked  Tate's  version  better  than 
the  purity  of  the  original,  and  once  an  attempt  being  made  at 
Covent  Garden  to  act  the  play  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it,  the 
result  was  total  failure. 

A  certain  critic,  who  used  a  poisoned  arrow  for  his  pen, 
describes  Tate  as  the  author  of  the  worst  alteration  of  Shakes- 
peare, the  worst  version  of  the  Psalms  of  David,  and  the  worst 
continuation  of  a  great  poem, 

This  opinion  is  probably  based  on  the  fact  that  Pope  put 
Tate  into  the  "  Dunciad."  Pope  wrote  that  Tate  leaned  alter- 
nately to  sense  and  nonsense,  that  he  blundered  round  a  mean- 
ing, that  his  fustian  was 

11  So  sublimely  bad 
It  is  not  poetry,  but  prose  run  mad." 

It  is  true  that  a  personal  study  of  Tate's  work  results  in  dis- 
appointment. It  is  wholly  lacking  in  imagination,  has  no  depth 
of  insight  or  feeling,  except  as  it  shows  depth  in  the  borrowed 
thought  with  which  it  is  pervaded;  yet  it  contains  often  wit 
and  fancy,  and  has  much  beauty  of  phrase  and  of  versification. 
His  translations  from  Juvenal  and  Ovid  have  many  graces  of 
style,  and  his  own  poem  called  "  Panacea  "  has  much  artistic 
excellence.  The  subject  is  uninteresting  to  readers  now,  con- 
cerned as  it  is  with  the  charms  of  tea,  but  in  Tate's  time  tea 
was  a  luxury  which  was  very  much  prized. 

Tate's  great  defect  is  that  he  had  not  only  little  originality 


IRabum  Gate.  63 

of  thought,  but  that  his   metaphors  and    turns  of  expression 
are  borrowed  right  and  left.     As  Pope  said  : 

"  He  steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left." 

Tate's  merit  is,  that,  in  an  age  which  enjoyed  the  coarseness 
of  Dryden  and  Shadwell,  he  lived  a  moral  and  upright  life,  and 
reflected  that  morality  in  his  later  poetry.  When  first  he  began 
to  write  he  catered  to  the  taste  of  the  age  by  the  usual  coarse 
allusions  in  his  plays.  But  as  the  profligacy  of  the  Restoration 
gradually  grew  less,  and  virtue  and  religion  began  once  more  to 
be  considered  of  some  importance,  Tate  of-course  had  the  good 
sense  to  forecast  the  future  and  change  his  methods.  And 
therefore  his  later  poems  are  not  disfigured  by  the  impurity 
unhappily  so  prevalent.     An  admiring  friend  wrote  to  him  : 

44  Long  may  the  laurel  flourish  on  your  brow 
Since  you  so  well  a  Laureate's  duty  know, 
For  virtue's  rescue  daring  to  engage, 
Against  the  tyrant  vices  of  the  age." 

One  of  Tate's  volumes  went  by  the  name  of  "  Sacred  Miscella- 
nies, or  Poems  on  Divine  and  Moral  Subjects." 

Tate's  morality  was  so  obtrusive  that  it  gave  rise  to  many 
bitter  satires  against  him.  From  choice  he  mingled  little  with 
the  wits  and  dramatists  of  the  time,  though  with  a  few  chosen 
companions  he  was  free  and  jovial.  In  general  society  he  was, 
however,  taciturn  and  reserved,  showing  little  trace  of  brilliancy 
of  mind  or  ease  of  manner.  His  portrait  is  not  extant.  He  is 
said  to  have  had  a  somewhat  refined  face,  with  a  downcast 
look,  and  that  in  many  respects  he  realised  in  his  personal 
appearance  the  drowsy  characteristics  of  his  muse. 

The  worst  continuation  of  a  great  poem  of  which  Tate  was 
guilty  was  the  second  part  of  "  Absalom  and  Achitophel."  But 
as  Tate's  satirical  powers  were  altogether  too  feeble  for  such 
invective,  Dryden  put  in  two  hundred  lines  of  bitter  abuse  of 
Shadwell.  These  lines  are  "as  plainly  distinguishable  from 
the  rest  as  a  patch  of  gold  upon  cloth  of  frieze,"  says  an 
admirer  of  Dryden. 

The  success  of  this  literary  partnership  made  Tate  ever  after- 
ward seek  the  help  of  others  in  his  work.  Tate's  chief  title  to 
fame  rests,  upon  his  version  of  the  Psalms.  His  helper  was  Dr. 
Brady,  the  court  chaplain.  This  version  appeared  in  1696,  one 
hundred  and  thirty-four  years  after  the  appearance  of  the  ver- 
sion of  Sternhold  and  Hopkins. 

It  was  received  with  suspicion  by  conservative  people,  and  a 
storm  of  hostile  criticism  was  provoked  ;  but  it  grew  steadily  in 
favour,  and  gradually  supplanted  the  old  version>  which  was 
inadequate  and  obsolete. 


64  Iftabum  Gate. 

It  was  authorised  by  King  William  and  recommended  by  the 
Bishop  of  London,  but  it  was  never  imposed  upon  the  English 
Church.  But  many  of  these  Psalms  have  found  a  place  in 
modern  hymn  books.  The  Church  at  large  makes  use  of  Tate's 
version  of  Psalm  xlii.,  set  to  music  by  Spohr.  It  is  certainly  a 
most  beautiful  rendering  of  the  original :' 

"  As  pants  the  heart  for  cooling  streams 
When  wearied  in  the  chase." 

It  is  even  surpassed  by  Psalm  civ.  Tate's  imagery  here  is 
exquisite. 

When  Shadwell  died  in  1692,  Dryden  urged  the  claims  of 
William  Congreve,  but  by  this  time  the  Laureateship  had 
ceased  to  have  any  special  significance  as  a  tribute  to  poetic 
genius.  It  was  a  mere  official  gift,  dependent  either  upon 
patronage  or  the  possession  of  certain  political  opinions. 
William  III.  was  not  a  lover  of  the  stage  like  Charles  II.  It  is 
said  that  never  once  during  his  reign  did  he  even  enter  a  theatre. 
He  could  therefore  have  little  appreciation  of  the  genius  of 
Congreve.  But  Tate's  political  ideas,  his  commendable  life, 
and  his  -willingness  to  eulogise  his  Majesty  made  the  king 
quite  willing  to  listen  to  his  Lord  Chamberlain,  who  was  none 
other  than  Dorset,  Tate's  patron  from  the  very  beginning  of  his 
career.  So  it  was  not  surprising  that  Tate  received  the  laurel 
crown. 

Tate's  laureate  odes  have  been  commended  for  their  brevity, 
and  criticised  for  their  weakness  and  their  abject  and  fulsome 
flattery.  They  pleased  the  king,  however,  and  he  had  them  set 
to  music  by  the  court  organist  and  sung  in  the  Royal  chapel. 
Tate's  Elegy  on  the  death  of  Queen  Mary  was  one  of  the  best 
things  he  ever  wrote.  Tate  lived  to  mourn  the  death  of 
William  also ;  but  Queen  Anne  retained  him  as  laureate,  issued 
new  letters  patent,  and  placed  the  gift  of  the  laurel  in  the  hands 
of  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  independent  of  the  crown. 

Tate's  records  of  the  notable  events  of  Anne's  reign,  the 
victories  of  Marlborough,  etc.,  were  really  creditable.  They 
were  events  certainly  grand  enough  to  stir  up  poetic  ardour  and 
passion.  And  yet  how  far  removed  from  genius  are  Tate's 
odes ! 

Dr.  Johnson  made  the  assertion  that  when  Queen  Anne  died 
the  laurel  was  torn  from  Tate's  unwilling  hands  and  given  to 
Nicholas  Rowe.  But  the  assertion  is  not  correct.  The  same 
mistake  has  been  repeated  by  several  writers  on  the  laureates. 
George  I.  ascended  the  throne  in  17 14,  and  Tate  was  officially 
reappointed  laureate,  and  wrote  one  ode  for  George.  The  date 
of  Rowe's  appointment  is  171 5,  the  year  of  Tate's  death. 

Some   enemies   said   that   Tate   in   his   later  years   became 


Iflabum  Gate.  65 

intemperate,  but  this  has  never  been  proved.  But  one  folly  he 
had  committed,  and  it  was  not  consistent  with  his  worldly  wis- 
dom or  his  retired  life.  He  had  been  very  extravagant,  and 
after  Dorset's  death  became  very  much  embarrassed.  The 
Monitor, — a  penny  paper  projected  two  years  before  his  death, — 
of  which  he  became  editor,  did  not  succeed  as  he  hoped  it  might. 
He  became  bankrupt.  There  was  no  one  to  relieve  him,  now 
Dorset,  Dryden  and  other  friends  were  in  their  graves,  and 
poor  Tate's  last  days  were  sad  in  the  extreme.  Burdened  with 
debt,  ill  and  discouraged,  he  sought  refuge  from  his  creditors 
in  the  old  Mint,  Southwark,  and  died  there  in  great  misery  in 
171 5.     His  life  could  indeed  point  a  moral  and  adorn  a  tale. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  TATE. 


CHARLES  II. 

How  great  are  the  blessings  of  government  made 

By  the  excellent  rule  of  our  prince, 
Who,  while  trouble  and  cares  do  his  pleasures  invade, 
To  his  people  all  joy  does  dispense  : 

And  while  he  for  us  carking  and  thinking, 
We  have  nothing  to  mind  but  our  shops  and  our  trade, 
And  then  to  divert  us  with  drinking. 

From  him  we  derive  all  our  pleasure  and  wealth. 

Then  fill  me  a  glass— nay,  fill  it  up  higher, 
My  soul  is  athirst  for  His  Majesty's  health  ; 

And  an  ocean  of  drink  can't  quench  my  desire, 
Since  all  we  enjoy  to  his  bounty  we  owe, 
'Tis  fit  all  our  bumpers  like  that  should  o'erflow. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  MARY  II. 

With  robes  invested  of  celestial  dies, 
She  towers  and  treads  the  empyrean  skies ; 
Angelic  choirs,  skilled  in  triumphant  song, 
Heaven's  battlements  and  crystal  turrets  throng. 
The  signal's  given,  the  eternal  gates  unfold, 
Burning  with  jasper,  wreathed  in  burnish'd  gold  : 
And  myriads  now  of  flaming  minds  I  see — 
Pow'rs,  Potentates,  heaven's  awful  Hierarchy 
In  gradual  orbs  enthroned,  but  all  divine 
Ineffably  those  sons  of  glory  shine. 

CHORUS  FROM  THE  ODE  FOR  THE  YEAR  1705. 

While  Anne  and  George  their  empire  maintain 
Of  the  land  and  the  main, 

And  a  Marlborough  fights, 

Secure  are  the  rights 
Of  Albion  and  Europe  in  Piety's  reign. 


IRabum  Gate,  67 

THE  TEA  TABLE. 

{Fro??i   '''Panacea") 

Hail,  Queen  of  Plants,  pride  of  Elysian  bowers ! 

How  shall  we  speak  thy  complicated  powers  ? 
Thou  wondrous  panacea,  to  assuage 
The  calentures  of  youth's  fermenting  rage, 
And  animate  the  freezing  veins  of  age. 

To  Bacchus,  when  our  griefs  repair  for  ease, 
The  remedy  proves  worse  than  the  disease  ; 
Where  reason  we  must  lose  to  keep  the  round, 
And,  drinking  others'  healths,  our  own  confound. 
Whilst  tea,  our  sorrows  safely  to  beguile, 
Sobriety  and  mirth  does  reconcile  : 
For  to  this  nectar  we  the  blessing  owe, 
To  grow  more  wise  as  we  more  cheerful  grow. 

Whilst  Fancy  does  her  brightest  beams  dispense, 
And  decent  Wit  diverts  without  offence; 
Then,  in  discourse  of  nature's  mystic  powers 
And  noble  themes,  we  pass  the  well-spent  hours. 
Whilst  all  around  the  virtues,  sacred  band, 
And  list'ning  graces,  pleased  attendants  stand. 
Thus  our  tea-conversation  we  employ, 
Where,  with  delight,  instruction  we  enjoy; 
Quaffing,  without  the  waste  of  time  or  wealth, 
The  sovereign  drink  of  pleasure  and  of  health. 


ON  THE  SPECTATOR. 

AHusque  et  idem 

Nasceris.— Horace. 
(You  rise  another  and  the  same.) 

When  first  the  Tatler  to  a  mute  was  turned, 
Great  Britain  for  her  censor's  silence  mourned  ; 
Robbed  of  his  sprightly  beams,  she  wept  the  night, 
Till  the  Spectator  rose  and  blazed  as  bright. 
So  the  first  man  the  sun's  first  setting  viewed, 
And  sighed  till  circling  day  his  joy's  renewed. 
Yet,  doubtful  how  that  second  sun  to  name, 
Whether  a  bright  successor,  or  the  same, 
So  we  ;  but  now  from  this  suspense  are  freed, 
Since  all  agree,  who  both  with  judgment  read, 
'Tis  the  same  sun,  and  does  himself  succeed. 


68  mabum  Gate. 


FROM  THE  LOYAL  GENERAL. 

Friendship's  the  privilege 

Of  private  men  ;  for  wretched  greatness  knows 

No  blessing  so  substantial. 

Secure  and  free  they  pass  their  harmless  hours, 
Gay  as  the  birds  that  revel  in  the  grove 
And  sing  the  morning  up. 

SONG  :    DAMON'S  MELANCHOLY. 

Retired  from  any  mortal's  sight, 

The  pensive  Damon  lay ; 
He  blessed  the  discontented  night 

And  cursed  the  smiling  day. 
The  tender  sharers  of  his  pain, 

His  flocks  no  longer  graze, 
But  sadly  fixed  around  the  swain, 

Like  silent  mourners  gaze. 

He  heard  the  music  of  the  wood, 

And  with  a  sigh  reply 'd  ; 
He  saw  the  fish  sport  in  the  flood, 

And  wept  a  deeper  tide  : 
In  vain  the  summer  bloom  came  on, 

For  still  the  drooping  swain, 
Like  autumn  winds,  was  heard  to  groan, 

Outwept  the  winter's  rain. 

"  Some  ease,"  said  he,  "  some  respite  give, 

Ah,  mighty  powers  !     Ah,  why 
Am  I  too  much  distressed  to  live, 

And  yet  forbid  to  die  ?  " 
Such  accents  from  the  shepherd  flew 

Whilst  on  the  ground  he  lay  ; 
At  last  so  deep  a  sigh  he  drew 

As  bore  his  life  away. 

ECLOGUE  OF  VIRGIL. 

(The  shepherd  Corydon  woos  Alexis  ;  but  finding  he  could  not  prevail,  resolves 
to  follow  his  affairs,  and  forget  his  passion.) 

A  hopeless  flame  did  Corydon  destroy, 
The  lov'd  Alexis  was  his  master's  joy, 
No  respite  from  his  grief  the  shepherd  knew, 
But  daily  walk'd  where  shady  bushes  grew ; 


'the  angel  of  the  lord  came  down." — Page  69. 


IRabum  Gate*  69 

Where,  stretch'd  on  earth,  alone  he  thus  complains, 

And  in  these  accents  tells  the  groves  his  pains  : 

Cruel  Alexis  !  has  thou  no  remorse  ? 

Must  I  expire,  and  have  my  songs  no  force  ?    .    .    0 

'Tis  Pan  preserves  the  sheep  and  shepherd  too. 

Disdain  not  then  the  tuneful  reed  to  ply, 

Nor  scorn  the  pastime  of  a  deity. 

What  talk  would  not  Amyntas  undergo, 

For  half  the  noble  skill  I  offer  you  ?   .    .    . 

Come  to  my  arms,  thou  lovely  boy,  and  take 

The  richest  presents  that  the  spring  can  make. 

See  how  the  nymphs  with  lilies  wait  on  thee; 

Fair  Nai's,  scarce  thyself  so  fair  as  she, 

With  poppies,  daffodils,  and  violets  join'd, 

A  garland  for  thy  softer  brow  has  twin'd. 

Myself  with  downy  peaches  will  appear, 

And  chestnuts,  Amaryllis'  dainty  cheer; 

I'll  crop  my  laurel,  and  my  myrtle  tree, 

Together  bound,  because  their  sweets  agree. 

THE  TEAR. 

I  will  convert 
This  tear  to  a  gem — 'tis  feasible  ; 
For  laid  near  Julia's  broken  heart 
'Twill  to  a  diamond  congeal : 
And  yet  if  I  consider  well, 
These  tears  of  Julia  can  forbode  no  ill — 
The  frost  is  breaking  when  such  drops  distil, 

THE  UPRIGHT  MAN. 

Though  whirled  by  storms  the  racking  clouds  are  seen, 
His  unmolested  breast  is  all  serene. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  CHRIST. 

While  shepherds  watch'd  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down, 

And  glory  shone  around. 

"  Fear  not,"  said  he  (for  mighty  dread 

Had  seized  their  troubled  mind)  ; 
"  Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 

To  you  and  all  mankind. 


7°  fltabum  Gate. 

"  To  you,  in  David's  town  this  day, 

Is  born  of  David's  line, 
The  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign. 

"  The  heavenly  Babe  you  there  shall  find 

To  human  view  display 'd, 
All  meanly  wrapped  in  swathing  bands, 

And  in  a  manger  laid." 

Thus  spake  the  Seraph  ;  and  forthwith 

Appear'd  a  shining  throng 
Of  angels,  praising  God,  and  thus 

Address'd  their  joyful  song  : 

"  All  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 
And  to  the  earth  be  peace ; 

Good  will  henceforth  from  Heaven  to  men 
Begin,  and  never  cease  !  " 


HYMN. 

Through  all  the  changing  scenes  of  life, 

In  trouble  and  in  joy, 
The  praises  of  my  God  shall  still 

My  heart  and  tongue  employ. 

The  hosts  of  God  encamp  around 

The  dwellings  of  the  just ; 
Deliverance  he  affords  to  all 

Who  on  His  succour  trust. 

Oh,  make  but  trial  of  His  love, 

Experience  will  decide, 
How  blest  are  they,  and  only  they, 

Who  in  His  truth  confide. 

Fear  Him,  ye  saints,  and  you  will  then 

Have  nothing  else  to  fear  ; 
Make  you  His  service  your  delight, 

Your  wants  shall  be  His  care. 

For  God  preserves  the  souls  of  those 

Who  on  His  truth  depend, 
To  them  and  their  posterity 

His  blessings  shall  descend. 


mabum  Sate.  71 


PSALM  XLII. 

As  pants  the  hart  for  cooling  streams, 

When  heated  in  the  chase, 
So  longs  my  soul,  O  God  for  Thee, 

And  Thy  refreshing  grace. 

For  Thee,  my  God,  the  living  God, 

My  thirsty  soul  doth  pine  ; 
Oh,  when  shall  I  behold  Thy  face, 

Thou  Majesty  Divine  ? 

Why  restless,  why  cast  down,  my  soul  ? 

Trust  God,  and  He'll  employ 
His  aid  for  thee,  and  change  these  sighs 

To  thankful  hymns  of  joy. 

God  of  my  strength,  how  long  shall  I, 

Like  one  forgotten,  mourn  ; 
Forlorn,  forsaken,  and  exposed 

To  my  oppressor's  scorn  ? 

My  heart  is  pierced,  as  with  a  sword, 
While  thus  my  foes  upbraid. 

"  Vain  boaster,  where  is  now  thy  God  ? 
And  where  His  promised  aid  ?  " 

Why  restless,  why  cast  down,  my  soul  ? 

Hope  still,  and  thou  shalt  sing 
The  praise  of  Him  who  is  thy  God, 

Thy  health's  eternal  Spring. 


FROM  PSALM  XCV. 

Oh  come,  loud  anthems  let  us  sing, 
Loud  thanks  to  our  Almighty  King! 
For  we  our  voices  high  should  raise 
When  our  Salvation's  Rock  we  praise. 


FROM  PSALM  C. 

With  one  consent  let  all  the  earth 
To  God  their  cheerful  voices  raise — 

Glad  homage  pay  with  awful  mirth, 
And  sing  before  him  songs  of  praise- 


72  Babum  Gate. 

For  He's  the  Lord  supremely  good, 
His  mercy  is  forever  sure  ; 

His  truth,  which  all  times  firmly  stood, 
To  endless  ages  shall  endure. 

FROM  PSALM  CIV. 

Bless  God,  my  soul  !     Thou,  Lord,  alone 
Possessest  empire  without  bounds  ; 

With  honour  Thou  art  crown'd,  Thy  throne 
Eternal  majesty  surrounds. 

With  light  Thou  dost  Thyself  enrobe, 
And  glory  for  a  garment  take  ; 

Heaven's  curtains  stretch  beyond  the  globe, 
Thy  canopy  of  state  to  make. 

God  builds  on  limpid  air,  and  forms 
His  palace-chambers  in  the  skies  ; 

The  clouds  His  chariots  are,  and  storms 

The  swift-winged  steeds  with  which  he  flies. 

As  bright  as  flame,  as  swift  as  wind, 
His  ministers  heaven's  palace  fill ; 

All  have  their  sundry  tasks  assign 'd 

All  proud  to  serve  their  Sovereign's  will. 

The  various  troops  of  sea  and  land 
In  sense  of  common  want  agree  ; 

All  wait  on  Thy  dispensing  hand, 
And  have  their  daily  alms  from  Thee. 

Thus  through  successive  ages  stands, 
Firm  fixed,  Thy  providential  care  ; 

Pleased  with  the  work  of  Thy  own  hands, 
Thou  dost  the  wastes  of  time  repair. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  PSALMS. 

Untimely  grave. 

— Psalm  viz. 

And  though  He  promise  to  his  loss, 
He  makes  His  promise  good. 
— Psalm  xv. 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  just 
Shall  flourish  when  he  sleeps  in  dust. 
— Psalm  exit. 


IRabum  Gate.  73 


SELECTION  FROM  AN  ESSAY  FOR  PROMOTING 
PSALMODY. 

O  Queen  of  Sacred  Harmony, 
How  powerful  are  thy  charms  ! 
Care  shuns  thy  walks,  Fear  kindles  with  courage, 
And  joy  sublimes  into  ecstasy. 

What !     Shall  stage  syrens  sing  and  Psalmody  sleep  ? 
Theatres  be  thronged  and  thy  temples  empty  ? 
Shall  thy  votaries  abroad  find  heart  and  voice 
To  sing  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  persecution, 
Upon  the  waters  of  affliction, 
And  our  Britons  sit  sullenly  silent 
Under  their  vines  and  fig  trees? 


NICHOLAS  ROWE. 

Born  at  Little  Beckford,  Bedfordshire,  in  1674.  Made  laureate  in  1715.  Died 
in  1718. 

(Reign  of  George  I.) 

Tate's  successor  was  a  far  better  poet,  and  he  was  also  a 
more  prosperous  and  happy  man.  His  happiness,  however, 
was  not  due  to  the  gift  of  the  laurel,  for  he  wore  it  only  three 
short  years.  Rowe  belonged  to  a  good  family,  and  his  advent 
into  the  world  brought  great  joy  to  affectionate  parents.  In 
the  garden  adjoining  the  house  where  he  was  born  there  has 
been  erected  a  stone  to  his  memory.  The  boy  was  clever  and 
fond  of  books,  and  won  distinction  at  Westminster  School, 
where  Dr.  Busby  of  birchen  fame  alternately  abused  and 
praised  his  pupils.  At  sixteen,  when  Rowe  entered  the  Middle 
Temple,  he  plunged  with  zest  into  the  study  Of  law,  but  general 
literature  soon  proved  so  alluring  and  he  showed  such  taste 
and  intellectual  superiority  in  its  study,  that  law  soon  lost  its 
hold  upon  him.  Then,  as  always  afterward,  he  showed  especial 
skill  in  foreign  languages.  His  knowledge  was  profound  and 
thorough,  and  this  knowledge  not  only  improved  his  taste  and 
made  him  a  good  translator,  but  was  of  great  service  to  him  as 
an  original  worker  in  the  field  of  dramatic  art. 

The  death  of  Rowe's  father  made  him  not  only  independent, 
but  wealthy,  and  he  soon  gave  up  his  brilliant  prospects  of 
fame  as  a  lawyer  for  the  more  uncertain  rewards  of  literature. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  entered  into  competition  with  the 
brilliant  circle  of  dramatists  in  London,  by  publishing  a  play 
called  "  The  Ambitious  Stepmother."  In  this  we  see  a  great 
advance  upon  the  work  of  any  dramatist  since  the  death  of 
Davenant.  The  sentiment  of  this  play  is  noble  and  dignified, 
its  moral  influence  good,  while  the  language  is  refined  and  has 
much  grace  and  beauty.  Congreve  praised  it,  and  Betterton, 
Mrs.  Barry,  and  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  were  enthusiastic  actors  of  it. 
Thus  Rowe  stepped  at  once  into  a  successful  career.  Rowe's 
handsome  face  and  figure,  his  vivacious  talk,  his  charming 
manners  soon  won  him  many  friends,  not  only  among  men  of 


NICHOLAS    ROWK. 


micbolae  IRowe,  75 

letters,   but   among   the   social  dignitaries  of   the   great   city. 
After  his  death  Amhurst  wrote : 

"  Enough  for  him  that  Congreve  was  his  friend, 
That  Garth  and  Steele  and  Addison  commend, 
That  Brunswick  with  the  bays  his  temples  bound." 

The  friendship  with  Pope,  Swift,  Arbuthnot,  Prior,  and 
others  stimulated  Rovve's  intellectual  ardour  and  widened  the 
range  of  his  knowledge  of  men  and  of  society,  and  yet  all  this 
knowledge  never  gave  him  the  skill  to  write  a  good  comedy  ;  when 
he  attempted  it,  he  failed  signally.  But  he  had  the  good  sense 
to  perceive  wherein  his  strength  and  his  weakness  lay.  His 
second  tragedy  was  probably  the  indirect  cause  of  his  being 
appointed  laureate.  In  this  play  he  catered  to  the  popular 
hatred  of  France,  and  he  complimented  King  William  in  lan- 
guage both  enthusiastic  and  animated.  "  Tamerlane  "  became 
very  popular,  and  was  performed  on  every  birthday  of  the  king 
and  on  every  anniversary  of  his  landing  on  British  soil.  The  suc- 
cess of  "  Tamerlane  "  was  followed  by  that  of  "  The  Fair  Peni- 
tent." Its  principal  character — Lothario — has  become  a  house- 
hold word,  the  immortal  type  of  the  careless,  faithless  lover. 
And  we  can  trace  a  resemblance  in  it  to  Richardson's  famous 
Lovelace.  To  Rowe's  devotion  to  tragedy  alone  we  owe  "  Jane 
Shore  "  and  "  Lady  Jane  Grey."  The  tenderness,  the  grace,  the 
pathos  of  these  plays  show  how  thorough  and  affectionate  had 
been  Rowe's  study  of  the  great  Elizabethan  drama.  The 
proof  of  Rowe's  power  is  in  the  fact  that  they  held  the  stage  so 
long  and  were  so  popular  even  in  the  age  other  than  his  own. 
Jane  Shore  was  one  of  the  great  Sarah  Siddons'  favourite  char- 
acters. Sir  James  Mackintosh  spoke  with  great  feeling  of  the 
way  she  acted  it,  but  he  added  that  even  were  the  play  never 
seen  upon  the  stage,  but  simply  read,  it  would  prove  itself  to  be 
most  thrilling  poetry,  dealing  as  it  does  with  some  of  the  most 
touching  phases  of  remorse  and  pain.  But  with  all  the  genuine 
power  of  these  two  great  tragedies,  Rowe's  chief  distinction  in 
the  history  of  English  literature  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  was  the 
first  to  bring  out  an  edition  of  Shakespeare,  and  to  inaugurate 
that  revival  of  the  legitimate  Shakespearean  drama  which  gave 
Shakespeare  his  rightful  place  in  the  hearts  of  the  people.  His 
admiration  of  Shakespeare  was  honest  and  sincere,  and  the  effect 
of  that  admiration  is  seen  in  the  excellence  of  his  own  work. 

Rowe  had  several  important  offices  which  brought  him  both 
influence  and  money  ;  he  was  under-secretary  to  the  Duke  of 
Queensbury,  clerk  of  the  Council  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  etc. 
It  was  therefore  not  surprising  that  on  the  death  of  Tate,  the 
Lord   Chamberlain   should  select   this  handsome,  courtly,  and 


76  IFUcbolae  IRowe. 

popular  poet  to  be  laureate.  The  odes  Rowe  wrote  have  a  good 
deal  of  poetic  vigour  and  eloquence,  and  give  animation  and 
grace  to  themes  essentially  conventional  and  commonplace.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  he  wrote  these  odes  for  only  three 
short  years,  whereas  poor  Tate  had  been  obliged  to  grind  them 
out  for  three-and-twenty  years.  Perhaps  Rowe's  inspiration 
would  have  failed  him  under  such  pressure.  His  odes,  few  as 
they  are,  have  that  glow  and  passion,  and  that  eloquence  of  versi- 
fication which  are  absent  from  those  of  Tate  or  of  any  of 
Rowe's  successors  in  the  Laureateship  till  Thomas  Warton 
appeared.  And  yet  Rowe's  poetry  would  have  been  called  by 
Macaulay  a  fair  example  of  the  critical  poetry  of  his  age,  the 
"  poetry  to  which  the  memory,  the  judgment,  and  the  wit  con- 
tribute far  more  than  the  imagination." 

There  were  few  lampoons  directed  against  Rowe.  His  charm 
of  manner,his  magnetism  of  character,  made  him  a  favourite  with 
all  the  wits  who  usually  write  such  things.  Though  not  strictly 
domestic  in  his  habits,  his  gay  and  vivacious  disposition  leading 
him  much  into  the  life  of  the  court  and  of  London  society,  he 
lived  comparitively  free  from  the  vices  and  extravagances  of  his 
time.  He  was  married  twice,  and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
Pope  thought  him  heartless,  and  Addison  considered  his  heart  of 
very  light  material.  A  son  and  daughter  made  him  very  happy, 
and  the  latter  inherited  much  of  her  father's  beauty  of  person 
and  brilliancy  of  mind.  She  won  such  a  reputation  that  on  her 
death  an  inscription  to  her  was  put  beneath  the  inscription 
upon  her  father's  monument  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

This  poet,  so  rich  in  friends  and  in  all  that  makes  life  desir- 
able, who  was,  as  Pope  said,  seldom  grave,  but  would  laugh  all 
day  long,  and  do  nothing  else  but  laugh,  had  to  bid  the  world 
good-night  at  the  early  age  of  forty-five.  The  funeral  service 
was  read  by  the  famous  Bishop  Atterbury,  who  had  been  a 
schoolfellow  of  the  poet  years  before.  He  was  buried  near 
Chaucer  in  the  Poet's  Corner,  and  Pope  wrote  an  epitaph 
beginning : 

"  Thy  relics,  Rowe,  to  this  fair  urn  we  trust, 
And  sacred  place  by  Dry  den's  awful  dust.    .   . 
Peace  to  thy  gentle  shade,  and  endless  rest ! " 

Pope  subsequently  changed  the  epitaph  to  one  much  longer  but 
not  so  fine. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ROWE. 


ODE  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR,   1717. 

Winter  !  thou  hoary,  venerable  sire, 
All  richly  in  thy  furry  mantle  clad  ; 

What  thoughts  of  mirth  can  feeble  age  inspire 
To  make  thy  careful  wrinkled  brow  so  glad  ? 

Now  I  see  the  reason  plain  ; 
Now  I  see  the  jolly  train  : 
Snowy  headed  Winter  leads  ; 
Spring  and  Summer  next  succeeds; 
Yellow  Autumn  brings  the  rear. 
Thou  art  father  of  the  year. 

While  from  the  frosty  mellow'd  earth 
Abounding  Plenty  takes  her  birth, 
The  conscious  sire  exulting  sees 
The  seasons  spread  their  rich  increase; 
So  dusky  night  and  chaos  smil'd 
On  beauteous  form,  their  lovely  child. 

O  fair  variety  ! 
What  bliss  thou  dost  supply ! 
The  foul  brings  forth  the  fair 
To  deck  the  changing  year, 
When  our  old  pleasures  die, 
Some  new  one  still  is  nigh  ; 

O  fair  variety  ! 

Our  passions,  like  the  seasons,  turn, 
And  now  we  laugh,  and  now  we  mourn. 
Britannia,  late  oppress'd  with  dread, 
Hung  her  declining,  drooping  head  : 
A  better  visage  now  she  wears, 
And  now  at  once  she  quits  her  fears  : 
Strife  and  war  no  more  she  knows, 
Rebel  sons,  nor  foreign  foes, 

77 


78  IFUcbolas  IRowe. 

Safe  beneath  her  mighty  master, 

In  security  she  sits  ; 
Plants  her  loose  foundations  faster, 

And  her  sorrows  past  forgets. 

Happy  isle !  the  care  of  Heaven, 
To  the  guardian  hero  given, 
Unrepining  still  obey  him  ; 
Still  with  love  and  duty  pay  him. 

Though  he  parted  from  thy  shore 
While  contesting  kings  attend  him  ; 
Could  he,  Britain,  give  thee  more 
Than  the  pledge  he  left  behind  him  ? 


COLIN'S  COMPLAINT. 

Despairing  beside  a  clear  stream, 

A  shepherd  forsaken  was  laid  ; 
And  while  a  false  nymph  was  his  theme, 

A  willow  supported  his  head. 
The  wind  that  blew  over  the  plain, 

To  his  sighs  with  a  sigh  did  reply; 
And  to  the  brook,  in  return  to  his  pain, 

Ran  mournfully  murmuring  by. 

Alas !  silly  swain  that  I  was ! 

Thus  sadly  complaining  he  cried  ; 
When  first  I  beheld  that  fair  face, 

'Twere  better  by  far  I  had  died : 
She  talked  and  I  blessed  her  dear  tongue; 

When  she  smiled,  'twas  a  pleasure  too  great; 
I  listened,  and  cried  when  she  sung, 

Was  nightingale  ever  so  sweet  ? 

How  foolish  was  I  to  believe 

She  could  dote  on  so  lowly  a  clown, 
Or  that  her  fond  heart  would  not  grieve 

To  forsake  the  fine  folk  of  the  town-; 
To  think  that  a  beauty  so  gay, 

So  kind  and  so  constant  would  prove ; 
Or  so  clad,  like  our  maidens,  in  gray, 

Or  live  in  a  cottage  on  love  ! 

What  though  I  have  skill  to  complain, 

Though  the  muses  my  temples  have  crown'd ; 

What  though,  when  they  hear  my  soft  strain, 
The  virgins  sit  weeping  around  ? 


TO  THE  BROOK  AND  THE  WILLOW  THAT  HEARD  HIM  COMPLAIN. 

—Pate  79. 


IFUcbolas  IRowe*  79 

Ah  !  Colin  !  thy  hopes  are  in  vain, 

Thy  pipe  and  thy  laurel  resign, 
Thy  false  one  inclines  to  a  swain 

Whose  music  is  sweeter  than  thine. 

All  you,  my  companions  so  dear, 

Who  sorrow  to  see  me  betray'd, 
Whatever  I  suffer,  forbear, 

Forbear  to  accuse  the  false  maid. 
Though  through  the  wide  world  I  should  range, 

'Tis  in  vain  from  my  fortune  to  fly ; 
'Twas  hers  to  be  false  and  to  change, 

'Tis  mine  to  be  constant  and  die. 

If  while  my  hard  fate  I  sustain, 

In  her  breast  any  pity  is  found, 
Let  her  come  with  the  nymphs  of  the  plain, 

And  see  me  laid  low  in  the  ground  : 
The  last  humble  boon  that  I  crave, 

Is  to  shade  me  with  cypress  and  yew ; 
And  when  she  looks  down  on  my  grave, 

Let  her  own  that  her  shepherd  was  true. 

Then  to  her  new  love  let  her  go, 

And  deck  her  in  golden  array ; 
Be  finest  at  every  fine  show, 

And  frolic  it  all  the  long  day  : 
While  Colin,  forgotten  and  gone, 

No  more  shall  be  talked  of  or  seen, 
Unless  when,  beneath  the  pale  moon, 

His  ghost  shall  glide  over  the  green. 


SONG. 

To  the  brook  and  the  willow  that  heard  him  complain, 

Ah,  willow  !  willow  ! 
Poor  Colin  went  weeping  and  told  them  his  pain. 
Sweet  stream  !  he  cry'd,  sadly,  I'll  teach  thee  to  flow, 
And  the  waters  shall  rise  to  the  brink  with  my  woe. 
All  restless  and  painful  my  Celia  now  lies, 
And  counts  the  sad  moments  of  time  as  it  flies : 
To  the  nymph,  my  heart's  love,  ye  soft  slumbers  repair, 
Spread  your  downy  wings  o'er  her  and  make  her  your  care  ; 
Let  me  be  left  restless,  mine  eyes  never  close, 
To  the  sleep  that  I  lose  give  my  dear  one  repose. 


8o  Wcbolas  IRowe. 

Sweet  stream  !  if  you  chance  by  her  pillow  to  creep, 

Perhaps  your  soft  murmurs  may  lull  her  to  sleep. 

But  if  I  am  doom'd  to  be  wretched,  indeed, 

And  the  loss  of  my  charmer  the  fates  have  decreed, 

Believe  me,  thou  fair  one,  thou  dear  one,  believe, 

Few  sighs  to  thy  loss,  and  few  tears  will  I  give; 

One  fate  to  thy  Colin  and  thee  shall  betide, 

And  soon  lay  thy  shepherd  down  by  thy  cold  side. 

Then  glide,  gentle  brook,  and  to  lose  thyself  haste, 

Bear  this  to  my  willow ;  this  verse  is  my  last. 

Ah,  willow  !  willow  !    Ah,  willow  !  willow  ! 

ULYSSES. 

Learn  to  dissemble  wrongs,  to  smile  at  injuries, 
And  suffer  crimes  thou  want'st  the  power  to  punish  : 
Be  easy,  affable,  familiar,  friendly  : 
Search  and  know  all  mankind's  mysterious  ways, 
But  trust  the  secret  of  thy  soul  to  none : 

This  is  the  way, 
This  only,  to  be  safe  in  such  a  world  as  this  is. 

O  love !  how  are  thy  precious,  sweetest  moments 
Thus  ever  crossed,  thus  vex'd  with  disappointments  ! 
Now  pride,  now  fickleness,  fantastic  quarrels, 
And  sullen  coldness,  give  us  pain  by  turns ; 
Malicious  meddling  chance  is  ever  busy 
To  bring  us  fears,  disquiet  and  delays ; 
And  ev'n  at  last,  when,  after  all  our  waiting, 
Eager  we  think  to  snatch  the  dear-bought  bliss, 
Ambition  calls  us  to  its  sullen  cares, 
And  honour,  stern,  impatient  of  neglect, 
Commands  us  to  forget  our  ease  and  pleasures, 
As  if  we  had  been  made  for  nought  but  toil, 
And  love  were  not  the  business  of  our  lives, 

TO  MRS.  A.  D.,  WHILE  SINGING. 

What  charms  in  melody  are  found 

To  soften  every  pain  ! 
How  do  we  catch  the  pleasing  sound, 

And  feel  the  soothing  strain  ! 

Still  when  I  hear  thee,  O,  my  fair, 

I  bid  my  heart  rejoice; 
I  shake  off  every  sullen  care, 

For  sorrow  flies  thy  voice. 


Of 


1 


'  SHE   BIDS   THE   WINTER   FLY    AWAY, 
AND    SHE    RECALLS   THE    SPRING." — Page  81. 


1fttcbola6  1Rowe.  8l 

The  seasons  Philomel  obey, 

Whate'er  they  hear  her  sing; 
She  bids  the  Winter  fly  away, 

And  she  recalls  the  Spring-. 


ON  MR.  B AYES'*  DRAMATIC  PIECES. 

Wit  and  the  Laws  had  both  the  same  ill  fate, 

And  partial  Tyrants  sway'd  in  either  state. 

Ill-natur'd  Censure  would  be  sure  to  dawn 

And  alien  Wit  of  independent  fame, 

Wlijle  Bayes,  grown  old,  and  harden 'd  in  offence, 

Was  suffer'd  to  write  on  in  spite  of  sense  ; 

Back'd  by  his  friends,  th'  invader  brought  along 

A  crew  of  foreign  words  into  our  tongue, 

To  ruin  and  enslave  the  free-born  English  song, 

Still  the  prevailing  faction  propt  his  throne, 

And  to  four  volumes  let  his  plays  run  on. 


SELECTION. 

WHO  knows  the  joys  of  friendship  ? 

The  trust,  security,  and  mutual  tenderness, 

The  double  joys,  where  each  is  glad  for  both  ? 

Friendship  our  only  wealth,  our  last  retreat  and  strength, 

Secure  against  ill-fortune  and  the  world. 


STRAY  SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  FAIR  PENITENT. 

As  if  Misfortune  made  the  throne  her  seat, 
And  hone  could  be  unhappy  but  the  great. 

— Prologue. 

At  length  the  morn  and  cold  indifference  came. 

— Act  I. 

Is  she  not  more  than  painting  can  express, 
Or  youthful  poets  fancy  when  they  love? 

— Act  III. 

Is  this  that  haughty  gallant,  gay  Lothario  ? 

— Act  V. 

♦Bayes  was  Dryden's  name  in  the  satirical  verse  of  the  day. 


82  Wicbolae  1Rowe, 


STRAY  SELECTIONS  FROM  LADY  JANE  GREY. 

Some  secret  venom  preys  upon  his  heart ; 

A  stubborn  and  unconquerable  flame 

Creeps  in  his  veins  and  drinks  the  streams  of  life. 

Thou  art  the  man  in  whom  my  soul  delights, 
In  whom,  next  heaven,  I  trust. 

Thou  hast  prevaricated  with  thy  friend, 
By  underhand  contrivances  undone  me  ; 
And  while  my  open  nature  trusted  in  thee, 
Thou  hast  stepp'd  in  between  me  and  my  hopes, 
And  ravish'd  from  me  all  my  soul  held  dear, 
Thou  hast  betray 'd  me. 


PENITENCE  AND  DEATH  OF  JANE  SHORE. 
Jane  Shore,  her  Husband,  and  Belmour. 

Belmottr.  How  fare  you,  lady  ? 

Ja?ie  Shore.  My  heart  is  thrilled  with  horror. 

Belmour.  Be  of  courage  ; 

Your  husband  lives.     'Tis  he,  my  worthiest  friend  ! 

Jane  Shore.  Still   art  thou   there?     Still   dost   thou    hover 
round   me  ? 
Oh,  save  me,  Belmour,  from  his  angry  shade  ! 

Belmour.  'Tis  he  himself.     He  lives  !     Look  up. 

Jane  Shore.  I  dare  not. 

Oh,  that  my  eyes  could  shut  him  out  forever  ! 

Shore.  Am  I  so  hateful,  then,  so  deadly  <to  thee 
To  blast  thy  eyes  with  horror?     Since  I'm 
Grown  a  burden  to  the  world,  myself,  and  thee, 
Would  I  had  ne'er  survived  to  see  thee  more. 

Jane  Shore.  Oh,  thou  most  injured,  dost  thou  live,  indeed? 
Fall,  then,  ye  mountains,  on  my  guilty  head  ! 
Hide  me,  ye  rocks,  within  your  secret  caverns  ! 
Cast  thy  black  veil  upon  my  shame,  O  night  ! 
And  shield  me  with  thy  sable  wing  forever. 

Shore.   Why  dost  thou  turn  away  ?     Why  tremble  thus  ? 
Why  thus  indulge  thy  fears,  and  in  despair 
Abandon  thy  distracted  soul  to  horror  ? 
Cast  every  black  and  guilty  thought  behind  thee, 
And  let  'em  never  vex  thy  quiet  more. 
My  arms,  my  heart,  are  open  to  receive  thee, 


flltcbolas  Irtowe*  83 

To  bring  thee  back  to  thy  forsaken  home, 
With  tender  joy,  with  fond,  forgiving  love. 

Let  us  haste. 
Now,  while  occasion  seems  to  smile  on  us, 
Forsake  this  place  of  shame  and  find  a  shelter. 

Jane  Shore.  What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?     But  I  obey. 

Shore.  Lean  on  my  arm. 

Jane  Shore.  Alas  !  I'm  wondrous  faint. 
But  that's  not  strange.     I  have  not  ate  these  three  days. 

Shore.  Oh,  merciless ! 

Jane  Shore.  Oh,  I'm  sick  at  heart ! 

Shore.  Thou  murderous  sorrow  ! 

Would  thou  still  drink  her  blood,  pursue  her  still  ? 
Must  she,  then,  die  ?     Oh,  my  poor  penitent ! 
Speak  peace  to  thy  sad  heart.     She  hears  me  not. 
Grief  masters  every  sense. 

Enter  Catesby,  with  a  Guard. 

Catesby.  Seize  on  'em  both,  as  traitors  to  the  state ! 

Behnour.  What  means  this  violence  ? 

[Guards  lay  hold  on  Shore  and  Belmour. 

Catesby.  Have  we  not  found  you, 

In  scorn  of  the  protector's  strict  command, 
Assisting  this  base  woman  and  abetting  her  infamy  ? 

Shore.  Infamy  on  thy  head  ! 

Thou  tool  of  power,  thou  pander  to  authority ! 
I  tell  thee,  knave,  thou  know'st  of  none  so  virtuous, 
And  she  that  bore  thee  was  an  Ethiop  to  her. 

Catesby.  You'll  answer  this  at  full.     Away  with  'em  ! 

Shore.   Is  charity  grown  treason  to  your  court? 
What  honest  man  would  live  beneath  such  rulers  ? 
I  am  content  that  we  should  die  together. 

Catesby.   Convey  the  men  to  prison  ;  but  for  her — 
Leave  her  to  hunt  her  fortune  as  she  may. 

Jane  Shore.  I  will  not  part  with  him.     For  me — forme? 
Oh  !  must  he  die  for  me  ? 

[Following  him  as  he  is  carried  off.     She  Jails. 

Shore.  Inhuman  villains  ! 

{Breaks  Jrom  the  Guards. 
— Stand  off  !     The  agonies  of  death  are  on  her. 
She  pulls,  she  gripes  me  hard  with  her  cold  hand. 

Jane  Shore.  Was  this  blow  wanting  to  complete  my  ruin  ? 
Oh,  let  me  go,  ye  ministers  of  terror ! 
He  shall  offend  no  more,  for  I  will  die, 
And  yield  obedience  to  your  cruel  master. 
Tarry  a  little,  but  a  little  longer, 
And  take  my  last  breath  with  you. 


84  fUcbolas  IRoxve. 

Shore.  Oh,  my  love ! 

Why  dost  thou  fix  thy  dying  eyes  upon  me, 
With  such  an  earnest,  such  a  piteous  look, 
As  if  thy  heart  were  full  of  some  sad  meaning 
Thou  couldst  not  speak  ? 

Jane  Shore.  Forgive  me,  but  forgive  me. 

Shore.  Be  witness  for  me,  ye  celestial  host, 
Such  mercy  and  such  pardon  as  my  soul 
Accords  to  thee,  and  begs  of  heaven  to  shew  thee, 
May  such  befall  me  at  my  latest  hour, 
And  make  my  portion  blest  or  curst  forever  ! 

Jane  Shore.  Then  all  is  well,  and  I  shall  sleep  in  peace, 
'Tis  very  dark,  and  I  have  lost  you  now. 
Was  there  not  something  I  would  have  bequeathed  you  ? 
But  I  have  nothing  left  me  to  bestow, 
Nothing  but  one  sad  sigh. 
Oh,  mercy,  heaven !  '  {Dies. 


LAWRENCE   EUSDEN. 


LAWRENCE  EUSDEN. 

Born  at  Spotisworth,  Yorkshire.  Date  of  birth  not  definitely  known.  Made 
laureate  in  1718.     Died  in  1730. 

(Reigns  of  George  I.  and  George  II.) 

"  PRAISE,"  said  the  poet  Lee,  "  is  the  greatest  encourage- 
ment we  chameleons  can  pretend  to,  or  rather  the  manna  that 
keeps  soul  and  body  together  ;  we  devour  it  as  if  it  were  angels' 
food,  and  vainly  think  we  grow  immortal.  There  is  nothing 
that  transports  a  poet,  next  to  love,  like  commending  in  the 
right  place." 

Poor  Eusden  had  little  commendation  to  transport  him.  The 
abuse  heaped  upon  him  by  his  contemporaries  was  without 
palliation — no  rays  of  light  relieve  the  shadows.     Cooke  spoke  of 

**  Eusden,  a  laurelled  bard,  by  fortune  raised 
By  very  few  was  read,  by  fewer  praised." 

The  neglect  of  the  present  age  has  been  added  to  what  Eusden 
suffered  in  his  own.  He  is  completely  ignored  in  the  Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica  and  other  biographical  dictionaries.  Time  has 
sifted  his  work  to  the  verge  of  annihilation,  and  were  it  not  for 
the  satires  upon  him  written  by  poets  who  have  themselves 
become  famous,  and  for  the  fact  that  he  was  laureate,  and  as 
such  is  mentioned  in  the  letters  of  men  like  Gray  and  Mason, 
even  his  name  would  be  forgotten. 

Southey  might  far  better  have  ranked  Eusden  as  the  lowest  of 
his  predecessors,  rather  than  either  Tate  or  Shadwell.  And  yet 
Eusden  wore  the  laurel  wreath  for  twelve  years  ! 

"  Praise,"  wrote  Pope, 

"  Praise  undeserved  is  scandal  in  disguise: 
And  when  I  flatter  let  my  dirty  leaves, 
Like  journals,  odes,  and  such  forgotten  things 
As  Eusden,  Phillips,  Settle,  wrote  of  kings, 
Clothe  spice,  line  trunks." 

And  Oldmixon  said  :  "  The  putting  of  the  laurel  on  the  head 
of  one  who  writ  such  verses  will  give  futurity  a  very  lively  idea 
of  the  judgment  and  the  justice  of  those  who  bestowed  it.  For 
of  all  the  galimatias  I  ever  met  with,  none  comes  up  to  some 
verses  of  this  poet  which  have  as  much  of  the  ridiculum  and  the 
fustian  in  them  as  can  well  be  jumbled  together." 

85 


86  Xawrence  jEuefcen. 

This  contains  in  epitome  all  the  numerous  criticisms  which 
have  been  written  upon  this  unfortunate  laureate,  and  a  per- 
sonal study  of  Eusden's  poetry  will  result  in  very  much  the 
same  opinion.  His  official  odes  are  not  only  insufferable  in 
their  exaltation  of  royalty,  but  have  even  a  blasphemous  tone 
opposed  to  all  sentiments  of  dignity  and  good  taste.  He  not 
only  flattered  and  exaggerated,  but  he  showed  no  tact  in  the 
flattery,  no  method  of  veiling  it  by  artifice  or  clever  allusion. 
It  all  came  out  unblushingiy  direct.  This  is  well  seen  in  one  of 
our  selections  on  the  accession  of  George  II. 

What  first  tempted  Eusden  to  make  verses  is  not  known, 
unless  some  hereditary  influence,  for  his  father  was  rector  of 
Spotisworth,  and  he  belonged  to  a  good  Irish  family.  The  pre- 
cise date  of  the  laureate's  birth  is  not  known,  nor  is  anything 
known  of  his  childhood  or  schooldays.  He  went  to  Cambridge 
and  graduated  from  Trinity  College.  We  may  infer  that  his 
college  career  was  one  of  honour,  for  we  are  told  by  Gray  that 
his  friends  had  great  hopes  of  his  future.  Anyway  he  attained 
a  knowledge  of  the  classics,  which  later  resulted  in  a  good 
translation  of  Ovid.  The  study  of  Latin  led  him  on  to  Italian, 
and  Eusden  left  in  manuscript  a  Life  of  Tasso  and  a  translation 
of  his  works.  He  had  plunged  with  great  enthusiasm  into  this 
very  useful  literary  work,  but  irregular  habits  made  the  execution 
extend  over  such  a  number  of  years  that  he  lost  heart  and 
never  had  the  ambition  to  publish  the  result  of  his  labours. 
Probably  hereditary  influence  determined  Eusden's  choice  of  a 
profession.  After  leaving  Cambridge  he  took  orders,  and  soon 
was  appointed  Chaplain  to  Lord  Willoughby  de  Broke.  In  a 
few  years  more  he  obtained  the  living  of  Coningsby  in  Lincoln- 
shire. His  sermons  were  not  distinguished  for  erudition, 
though  at  first  he  seemed  animated  by  an  earnest  desire  to  be 
of  benefit  to  his  parish,  and  his  labours  were  unselfish  and  faith- 
ful. All  too  soon,  however,  his  fatal  propensity  toward  intem- 
perance manifested  itself :  his  earnestness  relaxed  ;  his  influence 
waned,  and  in  Gray's  significant  words,  he  who  in  his  youth 
had  been  a  person  of  great  hopes,  turned  out  at  last  merely  a 
drunken  parson. 

In  the  beginning  of  his  career  Eusden  had  the  good  fortune 
to  win  the  favour  of  Lord  Halifax,  and  after  he  had  rendered 
Halifax's  poem  on  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne  into  excellent  Latin, 
the  relations  between  the  two  became  one  of  warm  friendship. 
When  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  married  Lady  Godolphin,  Eusden 
honoured  him  by  writing  an  epithalamium.  This  highly  pleased 
the  duke,  and  when,  as  Lord  Chamberlain  he  had  the  laurel  at 
his  disposal  he  had  little  hesitation  in  his  choice  of  Eusden. 
Eusden  had  been  quite  industrious  in  writing  poetry  before  this 
honour  came  to  him.     His  efforts  showed  no  genius,  but  they 


Xawrence  JEus&en.  87 

were  far  better  than  any  of  the  odes  he  wrote  in  his  official 
capacity.  Their  versification  was  smooth  and  flowing,  and 
often  there  were  traces  of  wit  and  sprightly  humour. 

In  addition  to  his  poetical  labours,  Eusden  contributed  to  the 
Spectator  and  the  Guardian  certain  prose  articles  which 
mirrored  some  of  the  aspects  of  the  age  and  showed  also  con- 
siderable humour.  But  all  of  his  work  was  disfigured  by  the 
laxity  of  expression  so  characteristic  of  his  century. 

The  appointment  of  Eusden  to  the  Laureateship  was  the 
occasion  of  the  famous  satire  written  by  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham in  imitation  of  Suckling's  "  Session  of  the  Poets."  It  seems 
that  on  the  death  of  Rowe  the  contest  for  the  vacant  position 
had  been  very  active.  Buckingham  takes  this  contest  as  the 
subject  of  his  satire.  He  speaks  of  a  great  crowd  assembling 
to  crown  a  new  laureate.  Apollo  comes  in  state  accompanied  by 
his  lyre  and  harp,  and  abundance  of  fire.  Pope,  Cibber,  Steele, 
and  Congreve — lampooners,  critics,  dramatists,  and  poets  rush 
in  like  a  tide,  all  with  confidence,  all  flushed  with  hope.  Apollo 
demurs  to  granting  Steele's  wish ;  confesses  that  the  lashes  of 
Dennis  and  Gildon  have  stings,  but  he  couldn't  choose  beadles 
and  hangmen  as  kings  ;  he  dismisses  Pope  and  Cibber  with  a 
smile  ;  Buckingham  himself  is  asked  to  walk  in,  but  a  laureate 
peer  had  never  been  known,  and  so  the  kind  god  cannot  break 
an  old  rule.  The  kind  god  gets  somewhat  confused  by  all  the 
clamour,  but  his  doubts  as  to  the  bestowal  of  the  crown  are  at 
length  merged  into  certainty  : 

"  At  last  rushed  in  Eusden,  and  cried,  who  shall  have  it, 
But  I  the  true  Laureat,  to  whom  the  King  gave  it  ? 
Apollo  begged  pardon,  and  granted  his  claim, 
But  vowed,  that  till  then,  he  had  ne'er  heard  his  name." 

The  record  of  the  twelve  years  after  the  bestowal  of  this 
honour  is  one  of  sadness.  Between  the  intervals  of  his  devotion 
to  the  cup  that  inebriates  without  giving  cheer,  Eusden  wrote 
his  birthday  odes  full  of  tiresome  and  fulsome  flatteries  of  those 
in  power.  These  poems  have  something  in  them  of  pathos, 
being  so  obviously  forced,  so  faithfully  obedient  to  a  ridiculous 
custom,  so  untrue  to  the  spirit  of  true  poetry.  At  irregular 
times  he  worked  on  Tasso,  but  it  and  his  clerical  duties  were 
neglected  more  and  more.  When  sober  he  won  friends  by  his 
kindly  ways,  though  after  a  lime  his  conceit  became  somewhat 
insufferable.  The  portrait  of  him  which  is  extant  in  the  British 
Museum  shows  the  marks  of  this  conceit  in  the  lines  of  the 
mouth,  and  the  very  position  he  allowed  himself  to  assume, 
holding  a  laurel  wreath  in  both  hands.  Eusden  had  the 
temerity  to  prophesy  that  his  poetry  would  be  considered 
sweeter   than    that  of  Catullus,  Ovid,  and    Tibullus  ;    but   his 


&&  Hawrence  J&mben. 

friends  who  were  the  recipients  of  this  confidential  prophecy 
had  little  hope  that  such  immortality  would  be  his! 

The  excesses  of  Eusden  undoubtedly  shortened  his  life,  and 
when  the  end  came,  in  1730,  there  were  few  to  regret  him — even 
the  court  which  had  honoured  him  forgot  the  beautiful  and 
sweet  things  he  had  written,  and  turned  with  zest  to  listen  to 
the  voice  of  another. 

Pope  wrote  : 

"  Know  Eusden  thirsts  no  more  for  sack  or  praise  ; 
He  sleeps  among  the  dull  of  ancient  days.    .   . 
Safe,  where  no  critics  damn,  no  duns  molest, 
Where  wretched  Withers,  Ward,  and  Gildon  rest.   . 
Thou,  Cibber !     Thou  his  laurel  shalt  support, 
Folly,  my  son,  has  still  a  friend  at  court." 


SELECTIONS  FROM  EUSDEN. 


A  POEM  ON  THE  HAPPY  SUCCESSION  AND  COR- 
ONATION OF  HIS  PRESENT  MAJESTY,  KING 
GEORGE  II. 

So  when  great  Brunswick  yielded  to  his  fate, 

O'ercast  and  cheerless  was  Britannia's  state ; 

Her  cheeks  to  lose  their  bloomy  hue  began, 

And  all  her  roses  vanished  with  the  sun. 

Till  a  new  Brunswick,  with  an  equal  ray, 

Recalled  at  once  her  beauties,  and  the  day, 

Firm  and  unchanged,  the  spires  and  turrets  stand, 

Religion,  join'd  with  Liberty's  fair  hand, 

In  triumph  walk,  and  bless  with  wonted  smiles,  the  land. 

Hail,  mighty  monarch  !  whose  desert  alone 

Would  without  birthright  raise  thee  to  a  throne. 

Thy  virtues  shine  peculiarly  nice, 

Ungloomed  with  a  confinity  to  vice, 

What  strains  shall  equal  to  thy  glories  rise, 

First  of  the  world  and  borderer  on  the  skies  ? 

How  exquisitely  great,  who  canst  inspire 

Such  joys,  that  Albion  mourns  no  more  thy  sire? 

Thy  sire  !  a  Prince  she  loved  to  that  degree, 

She  almost  trespassed  to  the  Deity. 

Imperial  weight  he  bore  with  so  much  ease, 

Who  but  thyself  would  not  despair  to  please? 

A  dull,  fat,  thoughtless  heir,  unheeded  springs 

From  a  long,  slothful  line  of  restive  kings 

And  thrones,  inur'd  to  a  tyrannic  race, 

Think  a  new  tyrant  not  a  new  disgrace, 

Tho'  by  the  change  the  state  no  bliss  receives, 

And  Nero  dies  in  vain,  if  Otho  lives. 

But  when  a  stem,  with  fruitful  branches  crowned, 

Still  ever  seem  (if  they  survive  or  fall), 

All  heroes  and  their  country's  fathers  all, 

His  great  forerunners  when  the  last  outshone, 

Who  could  a  brighter  hope,  or  ev'n  as  bright  a  son  ? 


9°  Xawrence  BusDem 

Old  Rome,  with  tears  the  younger  Scipio  viewed, 
Who  not  in  fame  her  African  renew'd. 
Avaunt,  degenerate  grafts,  or  spurious  breed, 
'Tis  a  George  only  can  a  George  succeed  ; 
The  shafts  of  Death,  the  Pelian  art  have  found, 
They  bring  at  once  the  balm  that  give  the  wound. 

Such  to  Britannia  is  her  king 
As  the  softly  murmuring  spring. 

CHORUS. 

Genius !  now  securely  rest, 
We  shall  evermore  be  blest. 
Thou  thy  guardianship  may  spare, 
Britannia  is  a  Brunswick's  care  ! 


GEORGE  II. 

A  MARVELLOUS  child  most  precious  sweet, 

For  deeds  heroic,  glorious  from  his  birth, 

The  Rhine,  the  wide-spread  Earth, 

His  praises  send  most  meet. 

His  deeds  to  mountains  name 

Have  lent  since  here  to  earth  he  came. 

Streams  which  in  silence  flowed  obscure  before, 
Swell'd  by  his  conquests,  proudly  learn 'd  to  roar. 


THE  COURTIER.     A  FABLE. 

A  milk-white  rogue,  immortal  and  unchang'd, 
By  Fate  and  Parliaments  severely  bang'd, 
Without  a  Saint,  a  Devil  was  within  ; 
He  fought  all  dangers,  for  he  knew  all  sin. 
Resolv'd  for  grandeur,  and  to  acquire  wealth, 
Robb'd  some  by  force,  and  others  trick'd  by  stealth ; 
A  wheedling,  fawning,  parsimonious  knave, 
The  prince's  favour  he  resolv'd  to  have. 
The  only  means  by  which  he  thought  to  rise, 
He  shuffl'd  cards  and  slyly  cogg'd  his  dice; 
A  true  state  juggler  could  make  things  appear 
Such  as  would  please  his  prince's  eye  or  ear; 
Produc'd  false  lights  his  monarch  to  mislead, 
Which  made  him  from  his  paths  of  interest  tread. 


Xawcence  JCusfcen.  91 

He  screen 'd  all  villains  from  due  course  of  laws, 

And  from  his  prince  his  truest  subjects  draws ; 

Till  angry  senates  the  vile  monster  took, 

And  from  the  root  the  upstart  cedar  shook, 

Squeez'd  the  curst  sponge  had  suck'd  the  nation's  coin, 

And  made  him  cast  up  what  he  did  purloin  : 

Then  on  a  gibbet  did  the  monster  die, 

A  just  example  to  posterity. 

THE  MORAL. 

Let  favourites  beware  how  they  abuse 

Their  prince's  goodness  or  the  people's  laws  : 

How  they  clandestine  methods  ever  use 
To  propagate  a  wrong  unrighteous  cause. 

The  prince's  favour,  like  a  horse  untam'd, 
Does  often  break  the  giddy  rider's  neck  : 

On  him  who  for  preferments  so  much  fam'd, 
The  people  oft  their  bloody  vengeance  wreak. 

Let  these  beware  how  they  mislead  their  prince, 
Or  rob  the  treasure  of  a  potent  nation, 

(Or  multiply  enormous  armies :  from  hence) 
Come  hanging  oft,  or  noble  decollation. 


TO  MR. 


You  ask,  my  friend,  how  I  can  Delia  prize, 
When  Myra's  shape  I  view,  or  Cynthia's  eyes ; 
No  tedious  answer  shall  create  your  pain, 
For  beauty  if  but  beauty,  I  disdain. 
'Tis  not  a  mien  that  can  my  will  control, 
A  speaking  body  with  a  silent  soul. 
The  loveliest  face  to  me  not  lovely  shows, 
From  the  sweet  lips  if  melting  nonsense  flows 
Nor  must  the  tuneful  Chloris  be  my  choice, 
An  earthly  mind  ill  suits  a  heavenly  voice. 
What  though  my  Delia  not  decay'd  appears, 
She  wants,  you  cry,  the  gaudy  bloom  of  years. 
True;  but  good  sense  perpetual  joys  will  bring 
Her  wit  is  ever  youthful  as  the  spring. 

So  kneels  at  some  fam'd  antiquated  shrine, 
The  pious  pilgrim  to  the  power  divine. 


92  Xawrence  ;6u6&en. 

Around  he  sees  wild  rugged  heaps  of  stone, 
Where  Parian  marble  once  and  jasper  shone  : 
Yet,  conscious  what  those  ruins  were  of  old, 
Dares  not,  unwoo'd,  the  mossy  walls  behold ; 
But  trembles  at  the  Deity's  abode, 
And  owns  the  powerful  presence  of  the  God. 


ON  THE  SPECTATOR'S  CRITIQUE  ON  MILTON. 

Look  here,  ye  pedants,  who  deserve  that  name, 
And  lewdly  ravish  the  great  critic's  fame. 
In  cloudless  beams  of  light  true  judgment  plays, 
How  mild  the  censure,  how  refin'd  the  praise  ! 
Beauties  ye  pass,  and  blemishes  ye  cull, 
Profoundly  read  and  eminently  dull. 
Though  linnets  sing,  yet  owls  feel  no  delight ; 
For  they  the  best  can  judge  who  best  can  write. 
O  !  had  great  Milton  but  surviv'd  to  hear 
His  numbers  try'd  by  such  a  tuneful  ear; 
How  would  he  all  thy  just  remarks  commend  ! 
The  more  the  critic,  own  the  more  the  friend. 
But,  did  he  know  once  your  immortal  strain, 
Th'  exalted  pleasure  would  increase  to  pain  ; 
He  would  not  blush  for  faults  he  rarely  knew, 
But  blush  for  glories  thus  excell'd  by  you. 


TO  THE  REVEREND  DR.  BENTLEY. 

{On  opening  Trinity  College  chapel.) 

Long  have  we,  safe,  Time's  envious  fury  scorn'd, 

By  kings  first  founded,  then  by  kings  adorn 'd; 

If  fainting  e'er  we  fear'd  a  fatal  close 

Some  new  Maecenas  with  new  life  arose. 

Fretted  by  age,  we  still  the  stronger  grow, 

And  to  our  ruins  all  our  beauties  owe. 

So  cassia  roughly  chaf'd  the  sweeter  smells, 

And  silver  more  consum'd  in  brightness  more  excels. 

Rais'd  on  high  columns  the  proud  fabric  stands, 

Where  Barrow  praise  from  every  tongue  commands  ; 

Where  the  vast  treasures  of  the  learn 'd  are  shown  ; 

No  works  more  rich,  more  noble,  than  his  own. 

The  Muses  soon  the  stately  feat  admir'd, 

And  in  full  transports  their  glad  sons  inspir'd : 

Their  sons,  inspir'd,  sung  loud,  and  all  around 

Echo  redoubled  back  the  cheerful  sound  ; 


Xawrence  jEusDen.  93 

Sweet  was  the  song,  when  lays  (if  such  they  give) 

Worthy  of  cedar  shall  in  cedar  live, 

This  sumptuous  pile  show'd  the  brave  founder's  mind 

But  equal  labours  still  remain  behind. 

God's  sacred  house  too  long  neglected  lies, 

And  from  some  other  Jonah  wants  supplies  ; 

But  none  was  found,  till  you  resolv'd  to  show 

How  far  exalted  piety  could  go  : 

From  little  funds  so  largely  to  design, 

Yet  to  make  all  in  full  perfection  shine, 

Great  is  the  glory,  and  the  glory's  thine  ! 

Of  old  a  joy  in  every  face  was  seen, 

Flush'd  by  the  promise  of  a  bounteous  queen. 

She  vow'd  a  temple  ;  but  too  soon  her  breath 

Vanish'd,  and  seal'd  her  pious  vows  in  death  ; 

Thus  David  drew  the  scheme,  but  not  begun  ; 

The  dome  was  builded  by  his  wiser  son. 

Not  so  we  far'd.     Though  by  Eliza  lov'd, 

Her  sister's  thoughts  were  lost,  but  not  disprov'd, 

Till  now  we  mourn'd  our  fate,  but  mourn  no  more ; 

Chac'd  are  the  mists,  which  clull'd  the  light  before. 

New  golden  censers  on  new  altars  blaze, 

New  music  sounds  the  great  Creator's  praise. 

Angels  again  from  Heaven  might  listening  stray, 

Did  but  another  sweet  Cecilia  play. 


Much  more  we  see,  and,  silent  with  surprise 

Recall  times  past,  and  scarce  believe  our  eyes; 

How  gloomy  once  these  hallow'd  mansions  were, 

But  now  how  wondrous  lovely,  how  divinely  fair ! 

So  quickly,  where  the  fragrant  dust  was  spread, 

Riseth  the  Phoenix  from  the  spicy  bed  ; 

Or  such  the  change  the  witty  poet's  figur'd 

When  hoary  ^Eson  his  young  bloom  regain'd 

He  but  regain'd  what  was  before  his  own, 

While  here  are  beauties  seen,  till  now  unknown. 

If  it  so  charms,  how  can  we  ever  show 

Thy  matchless  worth,  to  whom  those  charms  we  owe, 

Our  vain  essays  our  weakness  may  proclaim, 

But  not  enlarge  the  circle  of  thy  fame. 

Praises  from  some  delusive  may  appear  ; 

When  foes  extol,  we  need  no  flatteries  fear, 

The  stubborn  Atheist  a  fierce  shock  has  felt ; 

Steel'd  though  he  was,  he  now  begins  to  melt : 

Since  thus  he  sees  all  prejudice  remov'd, 

Thy  acts  confess  the  God  thy  learning  prov'd. 


94  Xawrence  Busfcen. 

MEDEA.     ACT    IV.     LAST   CHORUS. 

{From  the  Greek  of  Euripides!) 

From  things  considered  with  a  stricter  view, 

And  deepest  thought,  this  fatal  truth  I  drew  : 

Sure  of  mankind  the  unmarried  part  is  blest, 

By  joys  too  much  distinguished  from  the  rest. 

Suppose  there  are  ('tis  but  suppose,  I  fear), 

Pleasures  which  could  the  nuptial  state  endear: 

Think,  thou  may'st  wish,  and  every  wish  enjoy, 

A  beauteous  daughter  and  a  blooming  boy; 

Still  where's  the  mighty  comfort  of  a  wife  ? 

Or  what  is  wanting  in  a  single  life  ? 

Pity  not  ours,  nor  thus  by  fate  admire  ; 

The  bliss  we  know  not,  we  can  ne'er  desire. 

Yet  this  advantage  on  our  side  we  boast, 

The  good  is  little,  vast  the  ill  we  lost. 

All  hush'd,  and  calm  ! — no  griefs  our  ear  impair, 

Few  from  the  Father's  many  a  griping  care ; 

First,  how  the  child  may  generously  be  bred, 

Adorn'd  with  arts,  and  through  each  virtue  led. 

Next,  how  to  crown  him  with  a  fair  estate, 

And  so  to  make  him  happy,  make  him  great. 

Parents  from  labours  to  new  labours  run, 

To  hoard-up  treasures  for  the  darling  son  : 

Yet  know  not  what  this  darling  son, may  prove, 

A  roving  spendthrift  may  reward  their  love. 

Not  small  the  evils  which  we  here  behold, 

But  far  the  greatest  still  remain  untold, 

Just  when  with  utmost  pain  the  drudging  sire 

Has  rais'd  a  fortune  answering  his  desire  ; 

Already  the  first  scene  of  life  is  done, 

Whom  once  he  call'd  his  child,  he  calls  his  son  : 

The  boy  forgotten  and  the  man  begun. 

Large  promises  and  hopes  the  youth  incite, 

His  father's  glory  and  his  friends'  delight: 

But  sullen  clouds  involve  the  brightest  day, 

While  all  look  on,  to  some  disease  a  prey, 

The  lov'd,  the  wondrous  youth  untimely  pines  away. 

Too  well,  alas  !  too  well,  ye  gods,  we  knew, 

Our  troubles  many,  and  our  pleasures  few  : 

Why  needed  this  fresh  plague  be  added  more 

To  the  rich,  boundless,  miserable  store  ? 

The  old,  as  cloy'd  with  life,  to  death  belong, 

But  must  it  rudely  seize  the  young  ? 

In  vain  we  strive ;  the  cruel  doom  is  read, 

The  blossom's  wither'd,  and  our  hopes  are  fled. 


COLLEY    CIBBER. 


COLLEY  CIBBER. 

Born  in  London  in  1671.     Made  laureate  in  1730.     Died  in  1757. 

(Reign  of  George  II.) 

Sir  John  Denham  once  made  this  peculiar  request  of  the 
king  :  "  Please,  your  Majesty,  do  not  hang  George  Withers,  but 
spare  his  life  that  it  may  not  be  said  I  am  the  worst  poet  alive  !  " 
Colley  Cibber  never  went  so  far  as  that,  but  he  himself  laid 
no  claim  to  being  a  poet,  and  in  that  respect  he  was  the  most 
modest  of  men.  Nevertheless  Cibber  was  a  man  of  real  genius. 
His  name  has  lived,  not  because  he  was  made  poet  laureate  and 
was  put  into  the  "  Dunciad,"  but  because  he  was  one  of  the 
best  actors  of  his  time,  and  he  added  to  our  literature  some 
comedies  of  unmistakable  power,  which  tended  to  elevate  the 
stage  ;  and  also  wrote  a  history  of  his  life  which  contains  many 
criticisms  of  subtle  and  discriminating  insight. 

Cibber's  father  was  a  Dane,  who  had  studied  art  in  Italy  and 
come  to  England  during  the  Restoration,  and  there  won  fame 
by  his  fine  works  in  sculpture.  He  transmitted  to  his  son  that 
taste  for  art  which  determined  his  career.  Cibber's  mother 
belonged  to  the  family  of  Colley— a  family  of  rank  which  had 
become  impoverished  during  the  Civil  War.  Cibber  was  born 
in  London  in  167 1.  At  his  first  school  at  Grantham,  in  Lin- 
colnshire, he  distinguished  himself  both  for  his  quickness  and 
his  carelessness.  His  father  was  ambitious  for  him,  and 
wanted  him  to  enter  Cambridge,  but  circumstances  shaped 
themselves  differently.  On  his  way  from  school  to  join  his 
father,  the  Revolution  broke  out,  and  the  father  had  to  take  up 
arms.  But  he  showed  so  little  heart  that  Cibber  offered  to  be- 
come his  substitute  and  join  the  forces  of  the  Earl  of  Devon- 
shire. He  saw  no  fighting,  but  many  varied  and  exciting 
events  impressed  his  susceptible  mind  and  influenced  his  future 
dramatic  work.  When  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  once  firmly 
established  upon  the  throne,  Cibber  threw  down  his  musket 
with  joy.  By  this  time  thoughts  of  a  college  career  were  for- 
gotten. "  I  saw  no  happiness  in  any  other  life  than  that  of  an 
actor,"  he  says.  Accordingly  in  spite  of  parental  prejudices  and 
wishes  ho  returned  to  London  and  joined  the  Drury  Lane  Com- 
pany, and  thus  he  "  found  his  niche."  His  progress  was  slow, 
his  apprenticeship  long  and  tedious  ;  but  amid  discouragements, 


96  Golleg  Gibber* 

rebuffs,  poverty,  and  toil,  his  gayety  and  amiability,  bis  buoy- 
ancy of  temperament,  made  him  happy  and  content.  At  last 
he  became  known  as  a  comedian  of  splendid  abilities,  and  suc- 
cess both  as  an  actor  and  an  author  crowned  his  patient  effort. 
His  history  of  his  theatrical  life  is  absorbingly  interesting,  and 
the  glimpses  he  gives  of  the  famous  actors  and  dramatists  with 
whom  he  was  connected  are  charming.  He  delighted  to  play 
with  Mrs.  Barry,  and  later  with  the  famous  Peg  Woffington, 
and  their  skill  but  stimulated  his  own  wonderful  power.  It  is 
said  that  he  seemed  to  put  on  the  character  he  was  acting,  and 
every  limb  and  gesture  spoke  the  part  as  truthfully  as  the  words 
he  uttered.     His  great  role  was  the  fop  or  the  man  of  fashion. 

But  Cibber's  success  was  modified  and  embittered  by  the  per- 
sistent malice  of  many  enemies,  who  did  their  best  to  ruin  his 
reputation  by  slander  and  obloquy.  His  life  certainly  was  not 
free  from  error  and  folly,  but  the  utter  profligacy  attributed  to 
him  is  refuted  by  the  whole  tenor  of  his  writings.  In  them  he 
showed  a  regard  for  truth  and  honour,  and  sobriety  of  language 
and  of  conduct,  which  could  not  but  have  been  a  reflection  of 
his  personal  conviction.  He  did  much  to  reform  the  stage,  to 
correct  prevailing  abuses,  to  counteract  its  degrading  tenden- 
cies;  he  strove  in  his  plays  to  depict  pure  and  chaste  charac- 
ters, to  extol  virtue,  to  cast  a  slur  upon  vice,  and  bring  back, 
also,  some  of  the  truth  and  the  dignity  and  the  strength  of  the 
Elizabethan  drama.  Thus  Cibber  is  a  fine  contrast  to  Dryden 
and  Shadwell,  Wycherley,  Etheridge,  and  Congreve. 

Cibber's  first  comedy  was  "  Love's  Last  Shift."  Lord  Dorset 
considered  this  the  best  first  play  that  any  author  in  his  mem- 
ory had  produced.  And  the  public  received  it  with  great  ap- 
plause. Collier  in  his  "  Short  View  "  included  it  among  those 
plays  which  he  condemned  ;  but  Cibber's  subsequent  works 
would  have  escaped  that  censure.  Dr.  Blair,  who  in  some- 
what exaggerated  style  considered  "The  Provoked  Husband  ". 
the  best  comedy  in  the  English  language,  also  added  that  it 
was  calculated  to  expose  licentiousness  and  folly,  and  would  do 
honour  to  any  stage.  Cibber's  adaptation  of  Moliere's  "  Tar- 
tuffe,"  called  the  "  The  Nonjuror,"  was  immensely  successful  and 
even  now  is  occasionally  acted  under  another  name.  But  we  . 
have  no  space  to  even  mention  Cibber's  numerous  comedies. 
His  autobiography,  of  course,  deals  with  the  details  of  his  author- 
ship as  well  as  his  management  of  Drury  Lane,  and  of  the  law- 
suit with  Steele.  This  suit  showed  Cibber  to  be  a  man  of 
varied  talent — he  pleaded  his  own  cause  with  so  much  skill, 
such  force  of  logic,  that  he  won  his  case  without  help  from  the 
lawyers. 

Cibber's  domestic  life  contrasted  unfavourably  with  his  public 
career.     Gentle  and  gracious  of  character  in  many  respects,  he 


Collet  Ctbber,  97 

yet  lacked  steadfastness  and  constancy  ;  he  was  shallow  ;  had 
brilliancy  but  not  depth  ;  was  amiable  without  being  strong. 
It  is  said  that  he  was  an  inattentive  husband,  and  that  he  was 
lacking-  in  love  for  his  children.  But  it  is  impossible  to 
determine  how  true  this  is,  so  much  has  been  said  of  him 
which  is  the  direct  outgrowth  of  personal  envy.  Cibber  had 
a  large  family,  but  only  two  of  his  children  grew  up.  The 
son  led  an  infamous  life  and  made  his  wife — the  famous 
actress — very  unhappy.  Cibber's  daughter  had  a  career  highly 
romantic  and  full  of  varied  adventures.  She  died  in  extreme 
poverty.  As  a  proof  of  how  impossible  it  is  to  judge  correctly 
of  Cibber's  domestic  relations,  one  authority  asserts  that  this 
daughter  died  two  or  three  years  after  her  father's  death  ; 
another  that  she  died  in  destitution  while  he  was  yet  alive  ! 
One  thing  is,  however,  certain,  that  Cibber  repeatedly  urged 
upon  his  children  the  charms  and  duty  of  virtue,  but  that 
his  appeals  and  his  warnings  were  alike  in  vain. 

In  Cibber's  early  days  a  sight  of  Charles  II.  had  inspired 
a  poem,  and  he  also  wrote  an  ode  on  James  II.  But  these 
efforts  showed  no  trace  of  the  sparkle  of  his  subsequent  com- 
edies. George  I.  had  been  delighted  with  "  The  Nonjuror." 
When  Eusden  died  the  queen  promised  the  laurel  to  Richard 
Savage,  but  George  II.  and  his  Lord  Chamberlain  willed  other- 
wise. For  twenty-seven  years  Cibber  wrote  odes  with  great 
patience  and  industry.  In  these  the  vitalising  power,  the  im- 
aginative spirit  of  true  poetry  is  wholly  lacking  ;  and  yet  they 
are  not  contemptible.  They  are  correct  in  form,  and  have 
some  eloquence  and  terseness  of  phrase  and  melody  of  versi- 
fication. Of  course,  Cibber  was  not  fitted  for  the  position  of 
laureate,  and  he  should  have  had  the  good  sense  to  decline, 
but  being  one  of  the  vainest  of  men  he  accepted,  and  so  he 
incurred  the  ridicule  of  all  the  satirists  of  the  day.  But  he 
never  lost  his  temper.  He  would  often  read  to  his  friends  the 
best  things  written  against  his  unlucky  odes,  and  would  reply 
in  epigrams  satirising  himself  with  much  wit  and  spirit. 

The  persistent  malice  of  Pope  has  become  a  part  of  history. 
Pope's  "  Dunciad  "  is  immortal,  and  so  Cibber's  name  will  always 
suffer.  It  is  surprising  how  well  Cibber  bore  Pope's  attacks, 
only  once  or  twice  did  he  even  notice  them,  and  then  he 
said  that  Pope  considered  a  lick  at  the  laureate  a  sure  bait 
to  catch  little  readers.  When  Cibber  wrote  his  famous  letter 
of  remonstrance  to  Pope,  he  showed  dignity  as  well  as  un- 
answerable logic,  but  Pope  was  unappeasable.  All  critics,  from 
Johnson  to  De  Quincey,  concur  in  the  belief  in  Pope's  inaccu- 
racy. De  Quincey  even  spoke  of  his  radical  insincerity  of  char- 
acter, of  his  indifference  to  truth  whenever  it  stood  in  the  way 
of  pungent  satire  or  any  literary  effect.     Disraeli  wrote  :  "  Pope 


98  Collet  Gibber, 

forced  a  dunce  to  appear  as  Cibber,  but  this  was  not  making 
Cibber  a  dunce."  But  after  all  the  just  things  are  said  of  Cib- 
ber which  can  be  said,  the  fact  remains  that 

"  Truth  of  history  goes  to  wreck  under  the  perversities  of  Satire." 

Bentley  said  to  one  who  threatened  to  write  him  down,  that 
no  author  was  ever  written  down  but  by  himself.  But  Bentley 
was  wrong.  The  world  at  large  judges  Cibber  more  by  the 
"  Dunciad  "  than  by  his  own  Autobiography.  Cibber's  book, 
however,  still  retains  its  charm  for  its  naivete,  its  childlike 
egotism,  its  many  accurate  pictures  of  famous  men  and  women 
and  great  events  ;  and  as  a  history  of  the  stage  in  one  of  its 
most  interesting  epochs  it  is  an  important  contribution  to  litera- 
ture. When  Cibber  heard  that  Swift  had  sat  up  all  night  to 
read  his  book,  he  shed  tears  of  joy.  Betterton's  prophecy, 
early  in  Cibber's  career,  that  he  would  make  an  actor  of  decided 
power,  had  also  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  this  volatile,  mer- 
curial nature,  who,  in  spite  of  grave  defects  of  character,  showed 
many  wise  and  sagacious  traits — traits  in  marked  and  favour- 
able contrast  to  the  famous  poet  who  maligned  him. 

Soon  after  being  appointed  laureate  Cibber  retired  from  the 
stage,  acting  only  occasionally  with  his  favourite,  Peg  Woffing- 
ton.  His  last  days  were  quiet  and  peaceful,  and  he  died  quite 
suddenly  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-six. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  CIBBER. 


AN  ODE  TO  HIS  MAJESTY  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR, 
1730-31. 

Once  more  the  ever  circling  sun 

Through  the  celestial  signs  has  run  ; 

Again  old  Time  inverts  his  glass, 

And  bids  the  annual  seasons  pass. 

The  youthful  Spring  shall  call  for  birth, 

And  glad  with  opening  flowers  the  earth  ; 

Fair  Summer  load  with  sheaves  the  field, 

And  golden  fruits  shall  Autumn  yield  : 

Each,  to  the  Winter's  want,  their  stores  shall  bring 

Till  warmer  genial  suns  recall  the  Spring. 

Ye  grateful  Britons,  bless  the  year 

That  kindly  yields  increase, 
While  plenty  that  might  feed  a  war, 

Enjoys  the  guard  of  peace. 

Your  plenty  to  the  skies  you  owe  ; 

Peace  is  your  Monarch's  care, 
Thus  bounteous  Jove,  and  George  below 

Divided  empire  share  ! 

Turn,  happy  Britons,  to  the  throne  your  eyes, 

And  in  the  royal  offspring  see 
How  amply  bounteous  Providence  supplies 

The  source  of  your  felicity. 

Behold  in  every  face, 

Imperial  graces  shine  ! 
All  native  to  the  race 

Of  George  and  Caroline. 


100  Colleg  Gibber. 


CIBBER'S  IRONICAL  LINES  ON  HIMSELF. 

{In  reply  to  the  assertion  of  his  enemies  that  he  had  written  praises 
of  his  own  genius.) 

Ah  !  bah  !  Sir  Coll,  is  that  thy  way, 

Thine  own  dull  praise  to  write  ? 
And  wouldn't  thou  stand  so  sure  a  lay? 

No,  that's  too  stale  a  bite. 

Nature  and  Art  in  thee  combine, 

Thy  talents  here  excel, 
All  shining  Brass  thou  dost  outshine 

To  play  the  cheat  so  well. 

Who  sees  thee  in  Iago's  part, 

But  thinks  thee  such  a  rogue? 
And  is  not  glad  with  all  his  heart, 

To  hang  so  sad  a  dog  ? 

When  Bayes  thou  playest,  Thyself  thou  art ; 

For  that  by  Nature  fit, 
No  blockhead  better  suits  the  part, 

Than  such  a  Coxcomb  wit.^ 

In  Wronghead  too,  thy  Brains  we  see, 

Who  might  do  well  at  Plough  ; 
As  fit  for  Parliament  was  he, 

As  for  the  Laurel,  Thou  ! 

Bring  thy  protected  verse  from  Court, 

And  try  it  on  the  Stage  ; 
Here  it  will  make  much  better  sport 

And  set  the  town  in  rage. 

There  Beaux  and  Wits  and  Cits  and  Smarts, 

Where  Hissing's  not  uncivil, 
Will  show  their  hearts  to  thy  deserts 

And  send  them  to  the  Devii. 

But  ah  !  in  vain,  'gainst  Thee  we  write, 

In  vain  thy  verse  we  maul, 
Our  sharpest  Satyr's  thy  Delight, 

For  Blood  !  thou 'It  stand  it  all. 

Thunder,  'tis  said  the  Laurel  spares ; 

Nought  but  Thy  brows  could  blast  it ; 
And  yet,  O  curst,  provoking  Stars ! 

Thy  comfort  is,  thou  hast  it.- 


'WHAT      ARE     THE     DLESSINGS     OF     THE     LIGHT? 
O   TELL   YOUR    POOH    BLIND    BOY!" — Pct^e   101 


Colles  Gibbet  *of 


THE  BLIND  BOY. 

0  SAY  what  is  that  thing  call'd  Light, 
Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy  ; 

What  are  the  blessings  of  the  Light, 
O  tell  your  poor  blind  boy ! 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see, 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 

1  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 

Or  make  it  day  or  night  ? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 

Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play  ; 
And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 

With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe  ; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 
My  cheer  of  mind  destroy, 

Whilst  this  I  sing,  I  am  a  king 
Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 


FROM  SHE  WOU'D  AND  SHE  WOU'D  NOT. 
This  business  will  never  hold  water. 

FROM  WOMAN'S  WIT. 
Possession  is  eleven  points  in  the  law. 
Words  are  but  empty  thanks. 

FROM  LOVE'S  LAST  SHIFT. 
As  good  be  out  of  the  world  as  out  of  the  fashion. 

We  shall  find  no  fiend  in  hell  can  match  the  fury  of  a  disap- 
pointed woman — scorned  !  slighted  !  dismissed  without  a  part- 
ing pang. 


tfolleg  dibber. 

FROM  THE  RIVAL  FOOLS. 
Stolen  sweets  are  best. 

FROM  CAESAR  IN  EGYPT. 

Is  there  a  crime 
Beneath  the  roof  of  heaven,  that  stains  the  soul 
Of  man  with  more  infernal  hue  than  damn'd 

Assassination  ? 

How  sudden  are  the  blows  of  fate!  what  change, 
What  revolution,  in  the  state  of  glory ! 

Oh  !  had  he  ever  lov'd,  he  would  have  thought 
The  worst  of  torture  bliss,  to  silent  parting. 

Virtue  never  is  defac'd  !  unchanged 

By  strokes  of  fate,  she  triumphs  o'er  distress, 

And  every  bleeding  wound  adorns  her  beauty. 

FROM  RICHARD  III. 

Life's  but  a  short  chase,  our  game — content. 
Which  most  pursued,  is  most  compelled  to  fly  : 
And  he  that  mounts  him  on  the  swiftest  hope, 
Shall  soonest  run  his  courser  to  a  stand  ; 
While  the  poor  peasant  from  some  distant  hill, 
Undanger'd  and  at  ease,  views  all  the  sport, 
And  sees  content  take  shelter  in  his  cottage. 

Why  now  my  golden  dream  is  out — 

Ambition,  like  an  early  friend,  throws  back 

My  curtains  with  an  eager  hand,  o'erjoyed 

To  tell  me  what  I  dreamt  is  true — a  crown, 

Thou  bright  reward  of  ever-daring  minds  ; 

Oh  !  how  thy  awful  glory  fills  my  soul ! 

Nor  can  the  means  that  got  thee  dim  thy  lustre; 

For,  not  men's  love,  fear  pays  thee  adoration, 

And  fame  not  more  survives  from  good  than  evil  deeds. 

Th'  aspiring  youth  that  fir'd  th'  Ephesian  dome, 

Outlives  in  fame  the  pious  fool  that  rais'd  it. 


Colter  Cfbber.  103 

Off  with  his  head  !     So  much  for  Buckingham. 

I've  lately  had  two  spiders 

Crawling  upon  my  startled  hopes — 

Now  tho'  thy  friendly  hand  has  brush'd  'em  from  me, 

Yet  still  they  crawl  offensive  to  my  eyes  ; 

I  would  have  some  kind  friend  tread  upon  'em. 

Hark,  from  the  tents 

The  armourers  accomplishing  the  knights, 
With  chink  of  hammers  closing  rivets  up, 
Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 

Richard  is  himself  again. 


FROM  KING  JOHN. 

Is  death  more  cruel  from  a  private  dagger 

Than  in  the  field,  from  murdering  swords  of  thousands  ? 

Or  does  the  number  slain  make  slaughter  glorious? 

Were  men  t'  appear  themselves, 
Set  free  from  customs  that  restrain  our  nature, 
Nor  wolves  nor  tigers  would  dispute  more  fiercely  ! 
Yet  all  we  boast  above  the  brute  is — what  ? 
That  in  our  times  of  need  we  dare  dissemble. 


FROM  KING  JOHN. 
Act  V. 

Falconbridge.  O  Reverend  Father,  haste,  the  dying  King 
Implores  thy  holy  aid. — 

Abbot.  Said'st  thou  the  King? 

Falconbridge.  Dying  he  seems,  or  cannot  long  survive  : 
Whether  by  heat  of  action  in  the  field, 
His  latent  fever  is  inflam'd  to  danger, 
Or,  as  suspicion  strongly  has  avouched, 
The  gloomy  Monk,  who  serv'd  him  with  the  cup, 
Might  impiously  infuse  some  bane  of  life, 
We  know  not,  but  his  interval  of  sense 
In  grones  calls  earnest  for  his  Confessor. 

Constance.  In  his  accounted  sins  be  this  remembered. 

[Pointing  to  the  corpse  of  Arthur. 


i°4  Collet  Cibber. 

Falconbridge.  If  Grief  or  Prejudice  could  bear  to  hear  me, 
I  could  a  truth  unfold  would  calm  thy  sorrows. 
Constance.  Lies  not  my  child  there  murdered  ? — 
Falconbridge.  Hear  my  story. 

Enter  Salisbury  with  Arundel. 

Salisbury.  How  fortunate  the  hour !  that  he  had  sense 
To  ratify  our  rights  and  seal  the  charter. 

Abbot.  What  news,  my  Lords  ?     How  fares  the  King  ? 

Salisbury.  I  fear  me,  poison 'd  !  his  whole  mass  of  blood 
Is  touch'd  corruptibly,  and  his  frail  brain, 
Which  some  suppose  the  mansion  of  the  soul, 
By  the  disjointed  comments  that  it  makes, 
Foreshows  its  mortal  office  is  expiring. 

Falconbridge.  And  Hubert  dying  disavowed  the  deed. 

[Apart  to  Constance. 

Constance.  Admitting  this,   that  mere  mischance  destroyed 
him, 
What  but  his  wrongs  expos'd  him  to  mischance? 
Nor  therefore  are  my  sorrows  more  reliev'd, 
But  as  oppression  may  be  less  than  murder. 

Enter  Pembroke. 

Pembroke,  The  King  seems  more  at  ease  and  holds  belief, 
That  were  he  brought  into  the  open  air, 
It  might  assuage  the  ferment  that  consumes  him. 

Salisbury.  Behold  the  sad  remains  of  royalty  ! 

Falconbridge.  Let  those  who  lov'd  him  not  endure  the  sight, 
When  he  is  gone  my  hopes  in  life  are  friendless.  {Exit. 

King  John  is  brought  in. 

Abbot.  How  fares  your  majesty? 

King  John.  The  air's  too  hot, 
It  steams,  it  scalds  !     I  cannot  bear  this  furnace  ! 
Stand  off,  and  let  the  Northern  wind  have  way, 
Blow,  blow  !  ye  freezing  blasts  from  Iceland  skies  ! 
O  blissful  region,  that  I  there  were  king  I 
To  range  and  roll  me  in  eternal  snow, 
Where  crowns  of  icicles  might  cool  my  brain, 
And  comfort  me  with  cold. 

Abbot.  O  gracious  Heaven — 
Relieve  his  senses  from  these  mortal  pangs, 
That  his  reflecting  soul  may  yet  look  back 
On  his  offences  past  with  penitence  ! 

King  John.  Why  am  1  tortur'd  thus  ?     I  kill'd  him  not ; 


Collet  Gibber.  io5 

Was  it  so  criminal  to  wish  him  dead  ? 

If  wishes  were  effectual,  oh,  my  crown, 

My  crown  should  from  the  grave  with  joy  redeem  him  ! 

Abbot.  If  penitence,  not  frenzy  prompts  thy  tongue! 
Behold  this  object  of  calamity, 
Whom  thy  severities  have  sunk  with  sorrow. 
O,  carry  not  beyond  the  grave  your  enmity. 

King  John,  Constance,  the  mournful  relict  of  my  brother, — 
How  do  thy  wrongs  sit  heavy  on  my  soul  ; 
But  who  was  ever  just  in  his  ambition  ! 
Thou  seest  me  now  an  object  of  thy  triumph, 
The  vital  cordage  of  my  heart  burnt  up  ! 
All  to  a  single  thread  on  which  it  hangs 
Consumed  ;  now  may  the  fearless  lamb  approach, 
Now  close  the  lion  eye  of  enmity. 
Hence  but  a  moment  all  this  royalty, 
This  pride  of  power  will  crumble  into  ashes. 

Abbot.  In  his  extremities,  Heaven  help  the  King  ! 

Constance.  And  may  his  contrite  soul  receive  its  mercy. 

King  John.  The  lamp  of  life  is  dry — Thy  prayers,  O  Father! 
At  Worcester  let  these  mortal  bones  have  rest. 
My  eyes  refuse  the  light — the  stroke  is  given. 
O,  I  am  call'd — I  wander — mercy,  Heaven  !  [Dies. 

Constance.  He  is  gone. 
The  turbulent  oppressor  is  no  more. 
The  hour  of  heav'nly  justice  has  at  last 
Demanded  his  account  of  England's  Empire  ; 
But  since  he  seem'd  to  pass  in  penitence, 
Let  all  his  crimes  be  buried  in  his  grave. 
Thou  Power  ador'd,  what  thanks  shall  I  repay  thee, 
That  my  affections  have  subdu'd  my  soul, 
T'  extend  its  charity  even  to  my  enemies  ? 
Now  Life,  I  have  no  farther  use  for  thee  ; 
Defer  awhile  the  obsequies  of  Arthur, 
Pass  but  some  hours  and  I  shall  soon  o'ertake  him, 
Then  lay  us  in  one  peaceful  grave  together. — 

[Exit,  led  off. 

Enter  Falconbridge,  who,  seeing  the  King,  starts  back. 

Falconbridge.  My  fears  are  true,  good  news  comes  now  too 
late; 
Deaf  is  the  ear  which  best  might  give  it  hearing. 

Salisbury.  O  Falconbridge!    if   thou  hast  aught   that    may 

dispel  our  general  consummation,  speak  it. 
Falconbridge.  Something  I  bring  to  cheer  this  sudden  sad- 
ness ; 


106  Colleg  Ctbber. 

From  France  the  Lady  Blanch,  arriv'd,  has  wrought 
Her  comfort  Dauphin  to  such  peaceful  temper, 
That  hearing  you  the  Barons  had  disclaim'd  him, 
He  now  accepts  the  Legate's  mediation, 
And,  on  such  terms  as  honour  may  accord, 
He  and  his  forces  leave  our  land  in  peace. 

Salisbury.  Lose  not  a  moment  then  to  close  this  treaty  ; 
Build  we  a  bridge  of  gold  for  his  retreat ! 
And  may  the  recent  dangers  we  have  passed. 
Never  by  civil  discord  be  recall'd. 

Falconbridgc.  There  only  lives  the  error  can  mislead  us. 
Let  not  self-wounds  our  native  strength  impair, 
What  rash  invader  can  have  hope  to  shake  us  ? 
Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms, 
England  no  foreign  force  shall  e'er  subdue 
While  Prince  and  Subjects  to  themselves  are  true. 


WILLIAM   WHITEHEAD. 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 

Born  at  Cambridge  in  1715.     Made  Laureate  in  1757.     Died  in  1785. 

(Reigns  of  George  II.  and  George  III.) 

On  the  death  of  Cibber  the  laurel  was  offered  to  Thomas 
Gray.  But  Gray  seemed  to  have  -no  ambition  to  be  the  suc- 
cessor of  men  like  Tate  and  Eusden.  For  Dryden's  genius 
Gray  always  had  that  earnest  admiration  which  made  him 
attribute  to  its  influence  his  own  poetic  power.  And  yet  of 
Dryden's  character  Gray  sternly  stood  censor.  "  He  was," 
said  Gray,  "  as  disgraceful  to  the  office  of  the  Laureateship 
from  his  character,  as  the  poorest  scribbler  could  have  been 
from  his  verses.  The  office  itself  has  humbled  the  possessor 
hitherto, — if  he  were  a  poor  writer,  by  making  him  more  con- 
spicuous;  and,  if  he  were  a  good  one,  by  setting  him  at  war 
with  the  little  fry  of  his  own  profession,— for  there  are  poets 
little  enough  even  to  envy  a  Poet  Laureate." 

So  even  the  opportunity  to  be  a  successor  to  the  great  Dry- 
den  had  no  charm  for  this  rare  spirit  of  genius.  Even  when 
urged  to  accept,  and  promised  that  no  birthday  odes  would  be 
required  from  him  unless  he  chose  to  write  them,  Gray  remained 
firm.  But  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Mason,  that  he  would  like  to 
know  to  whom  the  laurel  would  be  given,  as  he  interested  him- 
self not  a  little  in  its  history. 

Whitehead  had  never  put  forth  his  own  claims,  but  his 
unsought  honours  were  due  to  the  influence  of  the  Earl  of  Jer- 
sey, who  urged  Pitt  to  appoint  him  laureate. 

The  liberty  of  choice  offered  to  Gray  was  not  extended  to 
Whitehead.  He  had  to  furnish  the  customary  odes  every  year, 
as  Shad  well,  Tate,  and  others  had  done  before  him.  Mason 
remarked  that  he  should  think  King  George  would  have  wished 
to  dispense  with  hearing  music  for  which  he  had  no  ear  and 
poetry  for  which  he  had  no  taste.  But  Campbell  said  he  need 
not  have  thought  so.  "  If  the  King  had  a  taste  for  poetry  he 
would  have  abolished  the  laureate  odes  altogether  ;  as  he  had 
not,  they  were  continued." 

Whitehead  was  of  humble  origin,  the  son  of  a  baker  of  Cam- 
bridge, who  gave  his  son  a  good  education  amid  numerous 
difficulties  and  embarrassments.  The  boy  very  early  showed  a 
taste  for  poetry,   had  even  written   a  comedy  when  his  com- 


i°8  militant  TimbltebeaO, 

panions  were  thinking  only  of  field  sports.  At  Winchester 
school,  when  a  prize  was  offered  for  a  poem  on  a  subject  chosen 
by  Alexander  Pope,  it  was  Whitehead  who,  to  his  own  delight 
and  the  surprise  of  his  good  father,  was  fortunate  in  winning 
the  prize. 

The  boy  showed  his  good  sense  by  not  being  ashamed 
to  win  an  education  at  the  expense  of  his  pride.  Entering 
Cambridge  as  a  sizar,  he  graduated  w7ith  honours  and  was 
elected  a  fellow  of  his  college.  He  then  became  tutor  to  the 
son  of  the  Earl  of  Jersey.  He  travelled  with  him,  and  then 
settled  down  with  him  in  his  quiet,  beautiful  home,  where  many 
happy  years  were  passed.  Whitehead  had  leisure  for  literary 
studies,  and  he  enjoyed  not  only  the  friendship  and  confidence 
of  his  employers,  but  formed  many  close  connections  with  the 
nobility,  who  treated  him  with  respect  and  deference.  White- 
head became  very  popular  among  his  friends,  winning  their 
regard,  and  keeping  it,  too.  His  manners  were  not  only  polished, 
but  were  the  outward  expression  of  a  sincere  and  kind  heart. 
Though  fond  of  society,  he  indulged  in  no  dissipation.  He 
visited  the  theatres  frequently,  and  this  finally  led  him  to  try 
his  hand  at  dramatic  writing,  and  his  success  was  greater  than 
he  had  himself  anticipated. 

"  Creusa  "  is  perhaps  the  best  of  Whitehead's  plays.  It  is 
founded  upon  the  story  told  long  ago  by  Euripides  in  "  Ion," 
but  in  the  hands  of  Whitehead  it  is  divested  of  all  supernatural 
machinery,  and  deals  with  many  ideas  current  in  his  own  age. 

Whitehead  was  a  far  better  dramatist  than  poet.  Garrick 
praised  him  and  liked  to  act  his  characters,  and  Mrs.  Gibber 
thought  some  of  them  her  best  roles.  The  people  applauded 
the  sprightly,  elegant  dialogue,  which  even  if  it  did  not  show 
the  genius  of  men  like  Congreve  or  Southerne,  was  pure  and 
dignified,  upheld  virtue  and  honour,  and  made  intrigue  and 
insincerity  of  life  contemptible. 

The  temper  of  the  age  was,  as  we  know,  not  poetical. 
Literature  appealed  to  the  intellect,  and  ministered  little  to  the 
spiritual  instincts  of  humanity.  The  thought  which  strove  to 
express  itself  in  poetical  form  had  no  strength  of  flight,  few 
touches  of  imaginative  or  vitalising  power,  little  glow  and  fire 
of  spontaneous  passion.  In  1756  William  Whitehead  gave  to 
the  world  a  volume  of  poems  which  were  perfectly  in  harmony 
with  the  whole  spirit  of  his  age.  Their  versification  was  grace- 
ful, obviously  modelled  upon  that  of  Pope.  Their  thoughts 
were  conventional,  and  the  poet's  treatment  of  his  themes 
showed  little  originality,  though  many  times  his  style  had  a 
sparkle  really  captivating,  and  his  skill  in  narrative  was  both 
interesting  and  dramatic.  Occasionally  Whitehead  became 
eloquent  with  earnestness  and  a  semblance  of  passion. 


TKflUHam  TObttcbcaD.  109 

Two  years  before  being-  appointed  laureate  Whitehead 
became  Secretary  and  Registrar  of  the  Order  of  the  Bath.  To 
the  patronage  of  his  constant  friends,  the  Jerseys,  this  appoint- 
ment was  due,  not  to  his  own  political  services.  The  same 
might  be  said  of  his  winning  the  laurel.  The  gift  was  not  due 
to  his  services  to  literature,  though  he  himself  had  the  obtuse- 
ness  to  think  it  was,  and  wrote  so  repeatedly  in  his  answers  to 
his  critics. 

The  satirical  assaults  he  suffered  from  the  wits  of  the  day 
had  the  unfortunate  effect  of  making'  his  comedies  less  popu- 
lar. After  he  became  laureate,  Garrick  even  went  so  far  as 
to  accept  one  of  Whitehead's  plays  only  on  the  condition 
that  the  author's  name  be  withheld.  The  laureate  replied  to 
his  lampooners  in  his  "Charge  to  the  Poets,"  which  Coleridge 
praised  so  highly.  The.  forced  humour  of  this  poem,  as  well  as 
its  dogmatism  and  conceit,  provoked  a  storm  of  abuse.  Then 
came  "  The  Pathetic  Apology  for  All  Laureats,"  another  poem 
which  would  naturally  excite  still  more  ridicule.  The  infamous 
Churchill  spoke  of  Whitehead  as  being  in  the  laureate's  chair, 
"  by  grace,  not  merit  planted  there,"  and  of  his  "  mongrel  kind 
of  tinkling  prose."  Even  Dr.  Johnson  spoke  slightingly  of 
Whitehead's  talents,  but  the  cause  was  not  so  much  the  doc- 
tor's critical  sagacity  as  his  enmity  to  Garrick,  for  Whitehead 
had  shown  his  good  sense  in  upholding  Garrick  when  he 
had  revived  Ben  Jonson's  two  great  plays.  The  prologue  he 
wrote  to  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  "  is  as  good  as  anything 
he  ever  did.  Horace  Walpole,  even  when  he  praised  White- 
head's "  Variety  "  for  its  humour  and  originality,  and  called  it  a 
pretty  poem,  could  not  help  adding  that  it  possessed  not  more 
poetry  than  is  necessary  for  a  laureate.  I  should  class  "  The 
Enthusiast  "  even  higher  than  "  Variety."  It  is  a  poem  written 
in  thorough  sympathy  with  the  peace  and  charm  of  nature,  and 
also  points  to  that  wider  sympathy  with  humanity  which  is  so 
characteristic  of  the  true  dramatist. 

A  writer  in  Blackwood  wrote  thus  of  Whitehead's  laureate 
odes,  and  coming  as  it  does  from  an  English  source  it  is  espe- 
cially interesting  to  Americans:  "What  now  appears  most 
noticeable  in  Whitehead's  odes  is  his  prolonged  and  ludicrous 
perplexity  about  the  American  War.  At  the  first  outbreak  of 
it,  he  is  the  indignant  and  scornful  patriot,  confident  in  the 
power  of  the  mother  country,  and  threatening  the  rebels  with 
condign  punishment.  As  they  grow  more  and  more  obstinate, 
he  becomes  the  pathetic  remonstrant  with  these  unnatural 
children,  and  coaxes  them  to  be  good  boys.  .When  any  news 
of  success  to  the  British  arms  has  arrived,  he  mounts  his  high 
horse  again  and  gives  the  Yankees  hard  words,  hints  that  the 
gates  of  mercy  are  not  quite  closed  to  repentance.     Reverses 


no  TNUlUam  TObtteDeaD. 

come,  and  he  consoles  the  King.  Matters  grow  worse,  and  he 
is  at  his  wit's  end.  At  last  the  struggle  is  over ;  he  accommo- 
dates himself  to  the  unpleasant  necessity  of  the  case,  and 
sings  the  blessings  of  peace  and  concord." 

Laureate  from  1757  to  1785,  Whitehead  died  very  suddenly 
at  the  age  of  seventy,  only  a  few  days  before  the  King's  birth- 
day. Though  George  the  Third's  ignorance  of  both  poetry  and 
music  would  have  excited  the  contempt  of  Mason,  the  king 
did  not  wish  his  birthday  to  pass  without  the  customary  tribute 
to  his  many  and  sterling  virtues.  It  is  said  that  Thomas  War- 
ton  was  appointed  to  the  vacant  Laureateship  even  before  the 
funeral  of  Whitehead,  and  was  forced  to  write  an  ode  in  great 
haste. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WHITEHEAD. 


THE  LAUREATE. 

Obliged  by  sack  and  pension, 
Without  a  subject  or  invention, 
Must  certain  words  in  order  set, 
As  innocent  as  a  gnzette — 
Must  some  meaning  half  disguise, 
And  utter  neither  truth  nor  lies. 


FROM  A  CHARGE  TO  THE  POETS. 

The  following  fact  is  true 
From  nobler  names  and  great  in  each  degree, 
The  pension'd  laurel  has  devolved  on  me, 
To  me,  ye  bards  ;  and  what  you'll  scarce  conceive, 
Or,  at  the  best,  unwillingly  believe, 
Howe'er  unworthily  I  wear  the  crown, 
Unask'd  it  came,  and  from  a  hand  unknown. 


ODE  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR,  1761. 

And  who  is  he  of  regal  mien, 

Reclined  on  Albion's  golden  fleece, 
Whose  polished  brow  and  eye  serene 

Proclaim  him  elder  born  of  Peace  ? 
Another  George !  ye  winds  convey 

Th'  auspicious  name  from  pole  to  pole ! 
Thames  catch  the  sound,  and  tell  the  subject  sea 

Beneath  whose  sway  its  waters  roll. 
The  hoary  monarch  of  the  deep, 

Who  soothed  its  murmurs  with  a  father's  care, 
Doth  now  eternal  Sabbath  keep, 

And  leaves  his  trident  to  his  blooming  Heir. 
O,  if  the  muse  aright  divine, 

Fair  Peace  shall  bless  his  opening  reign, 


William  WbitebeaD, 

And  through  its  splendid  progress  shine, 

With  every  art  to  grace  her  train, 

The  wreaths  so  late  by  glory  won, 

Shall  weave  their  foliage  round  his  throne, 

Till  kings  abashed  shall  tremble  to  be  foes, 

And  Albion's  dreaded  strength  secure  the  world's  repose. 


ODE  FOR  HIS  MAJESTY'S  BIRTHDAY,  JUNE  4,  1765. 

Hail  to  the  rosy  morn,  whose  ray 
To  lustre  wakes  the  auspicious  day. 

Which  Britain  holds  so  dear ! 
To  this  fair  month  of  right  belong 
The  festive  dance,  the  choral  song, 

And  pastimes  of  the  year. 
WThate'er  the  wintry  colds  prepar'd, 
Whate'er  the  spring  but  faintly  rear'd, 

Now  wears  its  brightest  bloom  ; 
A  brighter  blue  enrobes  the  skies, 
From  laughing  fields  the  zephyrs  rise 

On  wings  that  breathe  perfume. 
The  lark  in  air  that  warbling  floats, 
The  wood-birds  with  their  tuneful  throats, 
The  streams  that  murmur  as  they  flow, 
The  flocks  that  rove  the  mountain's  brow, 
The  herds  that  through  the  meadows  play, 
Proclaim  'tis  nature's  holiday  ! 

And  shall  the  British  Lyre  be  mute, 

Nor  thrill  through  all  its  trembling  strings, 

With  oaten  reed,  and  pastoral  flute. 

Whilst  every  vale  responsive  rings? 

To  him  we  pour  the  grateful  lay 

Who  makes  the  season  doubly  gay  : 

For  whom,  so  late,  our  lifted  eyes, 

With  tears  besought  the  pitying  skies, 

And  won  the  cherub  Health  to  crown 

A  nation's  prayer,  and  ease  that  breast 

Which  feels  all  sorrows  but  its  own 

And  seeks  by  blessing  to  be  blest. 

Fled  are  all  the  ghastly  train, 

Writhing  pain,  and  pale  disease  ; 

Joy  resumes  his  wonted  reign, 

The  sunbeams  mingle  with  the  breeze, 
And  his  own  month,  which  Health's  gay  livery  wears, 
On  the  sweet  prospect  smiles  of  long  succeeding  years. 


TOllfam  TKilbttebeab.  i*3 

THE  JE  NE  SCAI  QUOI. 
A   SONG. 

YES,  I'm  in  love,  I  feel  it  now, 

And  Caelia  has  undone  me  ; 
And  yet  I'll  swear  I  can't  tell  how 

The  pleasing  plague  stole  on  me. 

'Tis  not  her  face  which  love  creates, 

For  there  no  graces  revel  ; 
'Tis  not  her  shape,  for  there  the  Fates 

Have  rather  been  uncivil. 

'Tis  not  her  air,  for  sure  in  that 
There's  nothing  more  than  common; 

And  all  her  sense  is  only  chat, 
Like  any  other  woman. 

Her  voice,  her  touch,  might  give  th'  alarm 

'Twas  both  perhaps,  or  neither; 
In  short,  'twas  that  provoking  charm 

Of  Caelia  all  together. 


THE  DOUBLE  CONQUEST. 


Of  music,  and  of  beauty's  power, 
I  doubted  much  and  doubted  long : 

The  fairest  face  a  gaudy  flower, 
An  empty  sound  the  sweetest  song. 

But  when  her  voice  Clarinda  rais'd, 
And  sung  so  sweet  and  smil'd  so  gay, 

At  once  I  listen'd,  and  I  gaz'd  ; 

And  heard,  and  look'd  my  soul  away. 

To  her,  of  all  his  beauteous  train, 

This  wondrous  power  had  Love  assign'd, 

A  double  conquest  to  obtain, 

And  cure  at  once  the  deaf  and  blind. 


"4  mtlliam  mhitehent). 


ON  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY 
FOUR  YEARS  OLD. 

Old  creeping  Time,  with  silent  tread, 
Has  stol'n  four  years  o'er  Molly's  head. 
The  rose-bud  opens  on  her  cheek, 
The  meaning  eyes  begin  to  speak ; 
And  in  each  smiling  look  is  seen 
The  innocence  which  plays  within. 
Nor  is  the  falt'ring  tongue  confin'd 
To  lisp  the  dawnings  of  the  mind, 
But  fair  and  full  her  words  convey 
The  little  all  they  have  to  say  ; 
And  eaqh  fond  parent,  as  they  fall, 
Find  volumes  in  that  little  all. 
May  every  charm  which  now  appears 
Increase,  and  brighten  with  her  years  ! 
And  may  that  same  old  creeping  Time 
Go  on  till  she  has  reach'd  her  prime, 
Then,  like  a  master  of  his  trade, 
Stand  still,  nor  hurt  the  work  he  made. 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 

AN   ODE. 

Once,  I  remember  well  the  day, 
'Tvvas  ere  the  blooming  sweets  of  May 

Had  lost  their  freshest  hues, 
When  every  flower  and  every  hill, 
In  every  vale  had  drunk  its  fill 

Of  sunshine  and  of  dews. 

In  short,  'twas  that  sweet  season's  prime, 
When  Spring  gives  up  the  reins  of  time 

To  Summer's  glowing  hand, 
And  doubting  mortals  hardly  know 
By  whose  command  the  breezes  blow 

Which  fan  the  smiling  land. 

'Twas  there,  beside  a  greenwood  shade, 
Which  clothed  a  lawn's  aspiring  head, 

I  urged  my  devious  way, 
With  loitering  steps  regardless  where, 
So  soft,  so  genial  was  the  air, 

So  wondrous  bright  the  day. 


*\ 


'twas  that  sweet  season's  prime 

when  spring  gives  up  the  reins  of  time 

to  summer's  glowing  hand." — Page  114. 


•Militant  Wbftebeafc.  115 

And  now  my  eyes  with  transport  rove 
O'er  all  the  blue  expanse  above, 

Unbroken  by  a  cloud  ! 
And  now  beneath  delighted  pass, 
Where  winding  through  the  deep  green  grass, 

A  full-brimmed  river  flowed. 

I  stop,  I  gaze,  in  accents  rude, 
To  thee,  serenest  solitude, 

Burst  forth  th'  unbidden  lay  : 
"  Begone,  vile  world  !     The  learned,  the  wise, 
The  great,  the  busy,  I  despise, 

And  pity  even  the  gay. 

"  These,  these  are  joys  alone,"  I  cry  ; 
"  'Tis  here,  divine  Philosophy, 

Thou  deign'st  to  fix  thy  throne  ! 
Here  contemplation  points  the  road 
Through  nature's  charms  to  nature's  God  ! 

These,  these  are  joys  alone  ! 

"  Adieu,  ye  vain,  low-thoughted  cares, 
Ye  human  hopes  and  human  fears, 

Ye  pleasures  and  ye  pains  ! " 
While  thus  I  spake,  over  my  soul 
A  philosophic  calmness  stole, 

A  stoic  stillness  reigns. 

The  tyrant  passions  all  subdue, 
Fear,  anger,  pity,  shame,  and  pride, 

No  more  my  bosom  move  ; 
Yet  still  I  felt,  or  seemed  to  feel, 
A  kind  of  visionary  zeal 

Of  universal  love. 

When  lo  !  a  voice,  a  voice  1  hear. 
'Twas  Reason  whispered  in  my  ear 

These  monitory  strains : 
"  What  mean'st  thou,  man  ?    Would'st  thou  unbind 
The  ties  which  constitute  thy  kind, 

The  pleasures  and  the  pains  ? 

"The  same  Almighty  Power  unseen, 
Who  spreads  the  gay  or  solemn  scene 

To  contemplation's  eye, 
Fixed  every  movement  of  the  soul, 
Taught  every  wish  its  destined  goal, 

And  quickened  every  joy. 


n6  Militant  OTbitebeaO. 

"  He  bids  the  tyrant  passions  rage, 
He  bids  them  war  externa]  wage, 

And  combat  each  his  foe ; 
Till  from  dissensions  concords  rise, 
And  beauties  from  deformities, 

And  happiness  from  woe. 

"  Art  thou  not  man,  and  dar'st  thou  find 
A  bliss  which  leans  not  to  mankind  ? 

Presumptuous  thought  and  vain  ! 
Each  bliss  unshared  is  unenjoyed, 
Each  power  is  weak  unless  employed 

Some  social  good  to  gain. 

"  Shall  light  and  shade,  and  warmth  and  air„ 
With  those  exalted  joys  compare 

Which  active  virtue  feels, 
When  on  she  drags,  as  lawful  prize, 
Contempt  and  indolence  and  vice, 

At  her  triumphant  wheels  ? 

"  As  rest  to  labour  still  succeeds 

To  man,  whilst  virtue's  glorious  deeds 

Employ  his  toilsome  day, 
This  fair  variety  of  things 
Are  merely  life's  refreshing  springs 

To  soothe  him  on  his  way. 

"  Enthusiast,  go,  unstring  thy  lyre, 
In  vain  thou  sing'st  if  none  admire, 

How  sweet  soe'er  the  strain  ; 
And  is  not  thy  o'erflowing  mind, 
Unless  thou  mixest  with  thy  kind, 

Benevolent  in  vain  ? 

"  Enthusiast,  go,  try  every  sense  ; 
If  not  thy  bliss,  thy  excellence, 

Thou  yet  hast  learned  to  scan  ; 
At  least  thy  wants,  thy  weakness  know, 
And  see  them  all  uniting  show 

That  man  was  made  for  man." 


LINES    TO    GARRICK. 

A  nation's  taste  depends  on  you  ; 
Perhaps  a  nation's  virtue,  too. 
O  think  how  glorious  'twere  to  raise 
A  theatre  to  virtue's  praise, 


TWUIHam  TKHbftebea&.  lI7 

Where  no  indignant  blush  might  rise, 
Nor  wit  be  taught  to  plead  for  vice. 
But  every  young,  attentive  ear 
Imbibe  the  precepts  living  there  ; 
And  every  inexperienced  breast 
There  feels  its  own  rude  hints  exprest, 
And,  wakened  by  the  glowing  scene, 
Unfold  the  world  that  lurks  within. 


ON    ONE    OF    HIS    LAMPOONERS. 

Churchill  had  strength  of  thought,  had  power  to  paint, 

Nor  felt  from  principle  the  least  restraint. 

Fiom  hell  itself  his  characters  he  drew, 

And  christen'd  them  by  every  name  he  knew ; 

For  'twas  from  hearsay  he  picked  up  his  tales, 

Where  false  and  true  by  accident  prevails. 

Hence,  I,  though  older  far,  have  lived  to  see 

Churchill  forgot,  an  empty  shade  like  vie. 

That  I'm  his  foe,  e'en  Churchill  can't  pretend  ; 

But,  thank  my  stars,  he  proves  I  am  no  friend. 

Yet,  Churchill,  could  an  honest  wish  succeed, 

I'd  prove  myself  to  thee  a  friend  indeed  ; 

For,  had  I  power  like  that  which  bends  the  spheres 

To  music  never  heard  by  mortal  ears, 

Where  in  his  system  sets  the  central  sun 

And  drags  reluctant  planets  into  tune. 

So  would  I  bridle  thy  eccentric  soul, 

In  reason's  sober  orbit  bid  it  roll ; 

Spite  of  thyself  would  make  thy  rancour  cease, 

Preserve  thy  present  fame  and  future  peace, 

And  teach  thy  muse  no  vulgar  place  to  find 

In  the  full  moral  chorus  of  mankind. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ROMAN  FATHER 

This  is  true  courage,  not  the  brutal  force 
Of  vulgar  heroes,  but  the  firm  resolve 
Of  virtue  and  of  reason.     He  who  thinks 
Without  their  aid  to  shine  in  deeds  of  arms, 
Builds  on  a  sandy  basis  his  renown, 
A  dream,  a  vapour,  or  an  ague  fit 
May  make  a  coward  of  him. 


ii8  tWUlliam  TObttebeafc. 

My  soul, 
Like  yours,  is  open  to  the  charms  of  praise. 
There  is  no  joy  beyond  it,  when  the  mind 
Of  him  who  hears  it  can,  with  honest  pride, 
Confess  it  just,  and  listen  to  its  music. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LINES   TO  THE  HONOURABLE 
CHARLES  TOWNSEND. 

O  Charles,  in  absence  hear  a  friend  complain, 
Who  knows  thou  lov'st  him  wheresoe'er  he  goes, 

Yet  feels  uneasy  starts  of  idle  pain. 

And  often  would  be  told  the  thing  he  knows. 

Why  then,  thou  loiterer,  fleets  the  silent  years, 

How  dar'st  thou  give  a  friend  unnecessary  tears  ? 

O  I  remember,  and  with  pride  repeat, 

The  rapid  progress  which  our  friendship  knew  ! 

Even  at  the  first  with  willing  minds  we  met ; 
And  ere  the  root  was  fix'd,  the  branches  grew. 

In  vain  had  Fortune  plac'd  her  weak  barrier ; 

Clear  was  thy  breast  from  pride,  and  mine  from   servile 
fear. 


TO  LADY  NUNEHAM,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER 
SISTER,  THE  HONOURABLE  CATHARINE  VEN- 
ABLES  VERNON,   JUNE,   MDCCLXXV. 

Mild  as  the  opening  morn's  serenest  ray, 

Mild  as  the  close  of  summer's  softest  day, 

Her  form,  her  virtues  (fram'd  alike  to  please 

With  artless  grace  and  unassuming  ease), 

On  every  breast  their  mingling  influence  stole, 

And  in  sweet  union  breath'd  one  beauteous  whole. 

Oft,  o'er  a  sister's  much-lamented  bier, 

Has  genuine  anguish  pour'd  the  kindred  tear: 

Oft,  on  a  dear-lov'd  friend's  untimely  grave, 

Have  sunk  in  speechless  grief,  the  wise  and  brave. 

— Ah,  hapless  thou  !  for  whose  severer  woe 

Death  arm'd  with  double  force  his  fatal  blow, 

Condemn'd  (just  Heaven  !  for  what  mysterious  end  ?) 

To  lose  at  once  the  sister  and  the  friend  ! 


IKHilliam  TKHbitebeab.  119 

VARIETY. 

(A  Tale  for  Married  People.) 

Two  smiling  springs  had  waked  the  flowers    . 

That  paint  the  meads,  or  fringe  the  bowers — 

Ye  lovers,  lend  your  wondering  ears, 

Who  count  by  months,  and  not  by  years — 

Two  smiling  springs  had  chaplets  wove 

To  crown  their  solitude  and  love : 

When  lo  !  they  find,  they  can't  tell  how 

Their  walks  are  not  so  pleasant  now. 

The  seasons  sure  were  changed  ;  the  place 

Had,  somehow,  got  a  different  face, 

Some  blast  had  struck  the  cheerful  scene  ; 

The  lawns,  the  woods  were  not  so  green. 

The  purling  rill,  which  murmured  by, 

And  once  was  liquid  harmony, 

Became  a  sluggish,  reedy  pool  ; 

The  days  grew  hot,  the  evenings  cool. 

The  moon,  with  all  the  starry  reign, 

Were  melancholy's  silent  train. 

And  then  the  tedious  winter-night — 

They  could  not  read  by  candle-light. 

Full  oft,  unknowing  what  they  did, 

They  called  in  adventitious  aid. 

A  faithful  favourite  dog — 'twas  thus 

With  Tobit  and  Telemachus — 

Amused  their  steps  ;  and  for  a  while 

They  viewed  his  gambols  with  a  smile. 

The  kitten,  too,  was  comical, 

She  played  so  oddly  with  her  tail, 

Or  in  the  glass  was  pleased  to  find 

Another  cat,  and  peeped  behind. 

A  courteous  neighbour  at  the  door, 

Was  deemed  intrusive  noise  no  more. 


Yet  neighbours  were  not  quite  the  thing — 
What  joy,  alas!  could  converse  bring 
With  awkward  creatures  bred  at  home — 
The  dog  grew  dull,  or  troublesome, 
The  cat  had  spoiled  the  kitten's  merit, 
And,  with  her  youth,  had  lost  her  spirit. 
And  jokes  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
Had  quite  exhausted  Jenny's  store. 


TKHilliam  IIMbftebeaD. 

— "  And  then,  my  dear,  I  can't  abide 

This  always  sauntering  side  by  side." 

"  Enough,"  he  cries  ;  "  the  reason's  plain ; 

For  causes  never  rack  your  brain. 

Our  neighbours  are  like  other  folks  ; 

Skip's  playful  tricks,  and  Jenny's  jokes, 

Are  still  delightful,  still  would  please 

Were  we,  my  dear,  ourselves  at  ease. 

Look  round,  with  an  impartial  eye, 

On  yonder  fields,  on  yonder  sky ; 

The  azure  cope,  the  flowers  below, 

With  all  their  wonted  colours  glow  ; 

The  rill  still  murmurs  ;  and  the  moon 

Shines,  as  she  did,  a  softer  sun. 

No  change  has  made  the  seasons  fail, 

No  comet  brushed  us  with  his  tail, 

The  scenes  the  same,  the  same  the  weather— 

We  live,  rny  dear,  too  much  together." 

Agreed.     A  rich  old  uncle  dies, 
An  added  wealth  the  means  supplies. 
With  eager  haste  to  town  they  flew, 
Where  all  must  please,  for  all  was  new. 
Why  should  we  paint  in  tedious  song, 
How  every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
They  drove  at  first  with  curious  haste 
Through  Lud's  vast  town  ;  or,  as  they  passed 
'Midst  risings,  fallings,  and  repairs 
Of  streets  on  streets,  and  squares  on  squares, 
Describe  how  strong  their  wonder  grew 
At  buildings — and  at  builders  too  ? 
Advanced  to  fashion's  waving  head, 
They  now,  where  once  they  followed,  led  ; 
Devised  new  systems  of  delight, 
Abed  all  day,  and  up  all  night, 
In  different  circles  reigned  supreme; 
Wives  copied  her,  and  husbands  him ; 
Till  so  divinely  life  ran  on, 
So  separate,  so  quite  bon-ton 
That,  meeting  in  a  public  place, 
They  scarcely  knew  each  other's  face. 
At  last  they  met,  by  his  desire, 
A  tete-a-tete  across  the  fire  ; 
Looked  in  each  other's  face  a  while, 
-With  half  a  tear  and  half  a  smile. 
The  ruddy  health,  which  wont  to  grace 
With  manly  glow  his  rural  face 


1  WE   LIVE,    MY    DEAR,    TOO    MUCH   TOGETHER."— Page   120. 


raiUam  TlTObitebeafc. 

Now  scarce  retained  its  faintest  streak, 

So  sallow  was  his  leathern  cheek. 

She  lank  and  pale,  and  hollow-eyed, 

With  rouge  had  striven  in  vain  to  hide 

What  once  was  beauty,  and  repair 

The  rapine  of  the  midnight  air. 

Silence  is  eloquence,  'tis  said. 

Both  wished  to  speak,  both  hung  the  head. 

At  length  it  burst :  "  Tis  time,"  he  cries, 

"When  tired  of  folly,  to  be  wise. 

Are  you,  too,  tired?" — then  checked  a  groan. 

She  wept  consent,  and  he  went  on  : 

"  How  delicate  the  married  life ! 

You  love  your  husband,  I  my  wife  ; 

Not  even  satiety  could  tame, 

Nor  dissipation  quench  the  flame. 

True  to  the  bias  of  our  kind, 

'Tis  happiness  we  wish  to  find. 

In  rural  scenes  retired  we  sought 

In  vain  the  dear,  delicious  draught, 

Though  blest  with  love's  indulgent  store, 

We  found  we  wanted  something  more. 


"  We  left  the  lonesome  place,  and  found, 

In  dissipation's  giddy  round, 

A  thousand  novelties  to  wake 

The  springs  of  life,  and  not  to  break. 

As,  from  the  nest  not  wandering  far, 

In  light  excursions  through  the  air, 

The  feathered  tenants  of  the  grove 

Around  in  mazy  circles  move, 

Sip  the  cool  springs  that  murmuring  flow, 

Or  taste  the  blossoms  on  the  bough  ; 

We  sported  freely  with  the  rest, 

And  still,  returning  to  the  nest, 

In  easy  mirth  we  chatted  o'er 

The  trifles  of  the  day  before. 

Behold  us  now,  dissolving  quite 

In  the  full  ocean  of  delight ; 

Not  happy  yet !  and  where 's  the  wonder  « 
We  live,  my  dear,  too  much  asunder  !  " 

The  moral  of  my  tale  is  this  : 
Variety's  the  soul  of  bliss  ; 


William  lixabttebeafc. 

But  such  variety  alone 

As  makes  our  home  the  more  our  own. 

As  from  the  heart's  impelling  power 

The  life-blood  pours  its  genial  store  ; 

Though  taking  each  a  various  way, 

The  active  streams  meandering  play 

Through  every  artery,  every  vein, 

All  to  the  heart  return  again ; 

From  thence  resume  their  new  career, 

But  still  return  and  centre  there, 

So  real  happiness  below 

Must  from  the  heart  sincerely  flow  ; 

Nor,  listening  to  the  siren's  song, 

Must  stray  too  far  or  rest  too  long. 

All  human  pleasures  thither  tend  ; 

Must  there  begin,  and  there  must  end  ; 

Must  there  recruit  their  languid  force, 

And  gain  fresh  vigour  from  their  source. 


L— 


THOMAS    WARTON. 


THOMAS  WARTON. 

Born  at  Basingstoke,  Hampshire,  in  1728.  Made  laureate  in  1785.  Died  in 
1790. 

(Reign  of  George  III.) 

Not  since  Dryden's  time  had  the  laurel  been  bestowed  so 
worthily  as  now.  At  last  a  man  of  genius  and  a  true  poet  had 
been  willing  to  accept  the  honour.  Warton  was  undoubtedly 
the  best  poet  of  the  prevailing  school,  though  he  had  also 
shown  traces  of  being  in  harmony  with  that  reaction  which 
was  already  manifesting  itself,  soon  to  be  expressed  in  the  work 
of  Cbwper  and  Burns,  and  later  of  Coleridge,  Southey,  and 
Wordsworth.  Warton  was,  as  it  were,  a  bridge  between  the 
poets  of  Queen  Anne's  time  and  the  poets  who  were  to  work 
out  the  great  revolution  in  English  poetry.  Warton  not  only 
showed  traces  of  that  enthusiasm  for  nature  which  was  soon  to 
be  expressed  so  gloriously,  he  not  only  viewed  with  sympathy 
the  spiritual  phases  of  the  age  as  contrasted  with  its  predomi- 
nant critical  and  artificial  temper,  but  he  wrote  in  harmony 
with  that  romantic  and  historical  impulse  which  gave  birth  to  a 
sublime  passion  for  the  glories  of  the  past.  It  has  long  been  the 
opinion  that  Percy's  "  Reliques  "and  Warton's  "  History  "  turned 
"  the  course  of  our  literature  into  a  fresh  channel."  In  Warton's 
case  his  passion  for  the  past  resulted  in  the  production  of  poetry 
infinitely  fresher,  nobler,  truer  than  any  since  the  time  of  Milton, 
and  by  influence  he  was  the  "  veritable  literary  father  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott."  In  many  respects  Warton  was  imitative.  Often  we  see 
in  his  work  the  influence  of  Gray  as  well  as  of  older  writers, 
but  it  was  an  unconscious  imitation  which  has  its  charm.  And 
it  is  far  better  to  imitate  noble  models  and  show  some  power, 
than  to  produce  the  tame,  conventional,  correct  verses  of  men 
who  followed  so  closely  the  lead  of  Dryden  and  Pope. 

Warton's  powers  as  a  descriptive  poet  were  notable,  not  so 
much  where  he  treated  natural  scenery,  but  historic  places. 
He  showed  a  delight  in  Gothic  architecture,  in  the  grand  ruins 
of  his  country,  in  all  that  was  in  harmony  with  his  historical 
and  critical  tendencies.  It  is  said  that  his  poem  on  Oxford  in 
which  come  the  lines  beginning  : 

"  Ye  fretted  pinnacles,  ye  fanes  sublime," 
123 


i24  Gbomaa  TNlarton. 

so  affected  Dr.  Johnson  that  when  he  first  heard  it  read,  he  ap- 
plauded till  his  hands  pained  him.  The  poem  for  its  eloquence 
and  vigour  has  many  admirers  still. 

As  a  politician  Warton  was  acceptable  to  the  government. 
He  was  an  ardent  Conservative  in  all  his  opinions,  and  in 
religion  somewhat  of  a  bigot.  The  bestowal  of  the  laurel 
pleased  him  greatly,  and  he  alluded  to  it  in  one  of  his  sonnets 
with  a  naivete  which  is  charming.  Like  Southey,  Warton 
wished  to  magnify  his  office,  and  in  his  verse  classed  Chaucer 
and  Spenser  among  the  laureates  of  the  past,  but  when  driven 
to  state  plain  facts,  he,  too,  acknowledged  that  the  true  English 
Laureateship  began  with  Ben  Jonson. 

Of  all  the  laureates,  with  the  exception  of  Rowe,  Warton 
suffered  the  least  from  satirical  attacks.  His  unmistakable 
claim  to  greatness  seemed  to  impress  the  small  buzzing  gnats 
that  usually  swarmed  about  the  poets  of  the  day.  Warton's 
first  official  ode  was  composed  in  haste  and  was  not  at  all  equal 
to  the  poetry  he  had  been  writing  for  many  years,  and  it  ex- 
cited more  or  less  ridicule ;  but  after  that,  his  official  work  was 
done  with  such  genuine  power  that  even  the  famous  Wolcot, 
who  under  the  name  of  Peter  Pindar,  produced  such  biting, 
brilliant,  and  unmerciful  satires,  contented  himself  with  a 
few  harmless  thrusts.  Warton  was  too  great  a  poet  and  too 
amiable  a  man  to  treat  such  attacks  with  anything  but  com- 
posure and  dignity.  To  his  official  odes  we  can  apply  the 
words  which  he  himself  applied  to  Dryden  : 

*'  He  came  to  light  the  muse's  clearer  flame, 
To  lofty  numbers  grace  to  lend, 
And  strength  with  melody  to  blend  ; 
To  triumph  in  the  bold  career  of  song, 
And  roll  th'  unwearied  energy  along." 

We  notice  in  Warton's  official  work  not  only  lyric  grace  and 
manly  strength,  but  an  absence  of  that  servility,  that  insincerity 
of  adulation,  which  had  disgraced  the  work  of  Tate  and  Eusden. 
He  expressly  said  that  he  spurned  Dryden's  panegyric  strings, 
that  servile  fear  that  had  disgraced  his  regal  bays — that  it  was 
his  wish,  however,  to  catch  Dryden's  manlier  chord. 

Every  family  influence  seemed  to  stimulate  Warton's  natural 
bent  towards  poetry.  His  father,  the  vicar  of  Basingstoke  in 
Hants,  and  professor  of  poetry  at  Oxford,  had  distinguished 
himself  for  his  verses.  His  elder  brother,  Joseph,  was  famous 
as  a  poet,  a  translator,  an  editor,  and  a  critic.  But  his  duties 
as  head  master  of  Winchester  prevented  him  from  giving  his 
time  to  these  congenial  pursuits,  and  from  carrying  out  many 
of  his  poetical  theories — theories  opposed  to  the  dominant 
school  of  Pope. 

Thomas  early  showed  great  powers  of  application  and  a  de- 


ftbomas  iKflarton.  *25 

votion  to  poetry  in  harmony  with  family  traditions.  At  the 
age  of  nine  he  translated  an  epigram  of  Martial,  and  thus  be- 
gan to  lay  the  foundation  for  his  subsequent  profound  and  far- 
reaching  scholarship.  At  sixteen  he  entered  Trinity  College, 
Oxford  ;  and  in  the  following  year  he  wrote  "  The  Pleasures  of 
Melancholy."  He  took  his  degree  with  honour,  and  was  elected 
a  fellow  in  175 1.  Subsequently  became  professor  of  poetry, 
and  then  of  ancient  history.  Like  his  brother,  Warton  entered 
the  Church  and  held  different  livings,  but  his  clerical  duties 
were  merely  nominal.  He  lived  most  of  his  life  at  Oxford,  and 
he  never  married.  Old  Oxford  honoured  him  all  through  his 
busy,  useful  career ;  and  when  the  end  came,  he  was  buried  in 
Trinity  College  Chapel  with  every  mark  of  respect  and  all 
"academical  pomp." 

The  quiet  days  at  Oxford  were  spent  in  editing  various  edi- 
tions of  the  classics,  and  in  compiling  anthologies  ;  in  writing 
some  sonnets  which  rank  as  among  the  best  in  our  literature; 
and  in  publishing  poems, — some  of  them  humorous  and  satiri- 
cal,— and  these  were  a  relief  from  the  statelier  efforts  of  his 
genius.  The  critical  sagacity  of  the  man  showed  itself  in  his 
"  Observations  on  the  Poetry  of  Spenser;"  and  he  did  great 
service  to  Milton's  fame  by  his  able  and  sympathetic  editing  of 
the  minor  poems.  But  Warton  spent  most  of  his  time  in  inves- 
tigating our  early  literature  ;  and  it  resulted  in  his  great  work, 
"  The  History  of  English  Poetry."  Of  the  value  of  this  work  no 
student  can  be  forgetful.  He  was  a  pioneer  in  a  new  field,  and 
as  such  his  labours  were  prodigious,  but  he  won  an  enviable 
success.  His  influence  upon  English  literature  has  indeed  been 
great,  "greater  than  at  the  first  glance  we  should  imagine,"  say 
Austin  and  Ralph,  "  not  from  any  peculiar  force  of  mind 
stamping  its  impress  on  his  own  age  and  giving  a  direction  to 
the  thinking  of  posterity,  but  from  his  opportune  appearance, 
and  the  accidental  bent  of  his  studies.  Himself  a  traveller  in 
unaccustomed  regions  of  research,  he  pointed  out  the  way  to  that 
wide  field  of  romantic  literature  which  had  become  almost  a 
shadowy  land  to  his  contemporaries."  And  William  Minto  says 
with  equal  justice  and  enthusiasm  that  though  specialists  may 
here  and  there  detect  errors  in  WartOn's  work,  it  is  always  in- 
teresting, while  its  breadth  and  exactness  of  scholarship  must 
always  command  wonder  and  respect.  He  became,  as  I  said 
before,  the  veritable  literary  father  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  it 
was  through  him,  in  fact,  that  the  mediaeval  spirit  which  always 
lingered  in  Oxford  first  began  to  stir  after  its  long  inaction,  and 
to  claim  an  influence  in  the  modern  world. 

Warton  was  not  only  a  profound  scholar  and  a  poet,  but  he 
was  an  entertaining  companion  ;  "  the  life  of  the  common  room," 
is  the  Oxford  tradition.     He  told  stories  well,  with  a  charm  of 


i26  Gbomas  TDClattom 

wit  most  irresistible.  Though  never  married,  he  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  children  ;  and  this  natural  love  found  outlet  in  fre- 
quent visits  to  Winchester  School,  and  with  all  the  boys  he  was 
a  great  favourite.  He  often  helped  them  with  their  tasks.  Once 
discovering  that  on  a  poor  fellow  the  composition  of  a  poem  on 
a  difficult  subject  had  been  imposed,  he  wrote  the  poem  for 
him.  But  it  was  so  exceedingly  well  done  that  the  innocent 
fraud  was  of  course  detected  immediately.  Joseph  Warton, 
however,  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  his  brother's  imper- 
turbable face,  allowed  the  matter  to  pass  with  the  remark  that 
he  should  expect  another  poem  of  equal  merit  the  following 
week. 

Warton's  portrait  as  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
shows  an  earnest,  grave  face,  with  a  sparkle  to  the  eyes,  the 
mouth  inclined  to  curve  into  a  smile.  Handsome  in  youth,  he 
grew  stout  as  the  years  passed.  He  had  some  eccentricities, 
and  was  not  wholly  free  from  certain  harmless  superstitions  ; 
but  he  was  at  all  times  the  jovial,  free-hearted  English  gentle- 
man. His  literary  eminence,  joined  to  his  brilliant  wit  and  his 
charm  in  conversation,  won  him  many  friends  among  men  of 
letters,  and  he  was  the  recipient  of  many  flattering  honours  from 
them. 

Laureate  only  five  years,  he  was  engaged  in  writing  an  ode 
when  a  stroke  of  paralysis  came  swift  and  sure  to  end  his  busy, 
useful  life.  Three  days  after  death  had  claimed  him,  this  last 
ode  was  performed  in  the  Royal  Chapel  amid  the  tears  of  all 
present. 


"THE   PRINCE    IN    SABLE    STEEL." — Page    127. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WARTON. 


ON  HIS  MAJESTY'S  BIRTHDAY,  JUNE  4,  1787. 

The  noblest  bards  of  Albion's  choir 

Have  struck  of  old  this  festal  lyre. 

Ere  science,  struggling  oft  in  vain, 

Had  dar'd  to  break  her  Gothic  chain, 

Victorious  Edward  gave  the  vernal  bough 

Of  Britain's  bay  to  bloom  on  Chaucer's  brow : 

Fir'd  with  the  gift,  he  chang'd  to  sounds  sublime, 

His  Norman  minstrelsy's  discordant  chime  ; 

In  tones  majestic  hence  he  told 

The  banquet  of  Cambuscan  bold  ; 

And  oft  he  sung  (howe'er  the  rhyme 

Has  moulder'd  to  the  touch  of  time) 

His  martial  master's  Knightly  board, 

And  Arthur's  ancient  rites  restor'd  : 

The  prince  in  sable  steel  that  sternly  frown'd, 

And  Gallia's  captive  king,  and  Cressy's  wreath  renown'd. 

Won  from  the  shepherd's  simple  meed, 

The  whisper's  wild  of  Mulla's  reed, 

Sage  Spenser  wak'd  his  lofty  lay 

To  grace  Eliza's  golden  sway  : 

O'er  the  proud  theme  new  lustre  to  diffuse, 

He  chose  the  gorgeous  allegoric  muse, 

And  call'd  to  life  old  Uther's  elfin  tale, 

And  rov'd  through  many  a  necromantic  vale, 

Portraying  chiefs  that  knew  to  tame 

The  goblin's  ire,  the  dragon's  flame, 

To  pierce  the  dark  enchanted  hall, 

Where  virtue  sate  in  lonely  thrall. 

From  fabling  Fancy's  inmost  store 

A  rich  romantic  robe  he  bore : 

A  veil  with  visionary  trappings  hung, 

And  o'er  his  virgin-queen  the  fairy  texture  flung. 


i28  Gbomas  TKHarton. 

At  length  the  matchless  Dry  den  came, 

To  light  the  muses'  clearer  flame  ; 

To  lofty  numbers  grace  to  lend, 

And  strength  with  melody  to  blend  ; 

To  triumph  in  the  bold  career  of  song, 

And  roll  tli'  unwearied  energy  along, 

Does  the  mean  incense  of  promiscuous  praise, 

Does  servile  fear  disgrace  his  regal  bays  ? 

I  spurn  his  panegyric  strings, 

His  partial  homage,  tun'd  to  Kings  ! 

Be  mine,  to  catch  his  manlier  chord, 

That  paints  the  impassion'd  Persian  lord, 

By  glory  fir'd,  to  pity  su'd, 

Rous'd  to  revenge,  by  love  subdu'd. 

And  still  with  transport  new,  the  strains  to  trace 

That  chant  the  Theban  pair,  and  Tancred's  deadly  vase. 

Had  these  blest  bards  been  call'd  to  pay 

The  vows  of  this  auspicious  day, 

Each  had  confess'd  a  fairer  throne, 

A  mightier  sovereign  than  his  own  ! 

Chaucer  had  bade  his  hero-monarch  yield 

The  martial  fame  of  Cressy's  well-fought  field 

To  peaceful  prowess,  and  the  conquests  calm, 

That  braid  the  sceptre  with  the  patriot's  palm. 

His  chaplets  of  fantastic  bloom, 

His  colourings,  warm  from  fiction's  loom, 

Spenser  had  cast  in  scorn  away, 

And  deck'd  with  truth  alone  the  lay  : 

All  real  here  the  bard  had  seen 

The  glories  of  his  pictur'd  queen  ! 

The  tuneful  Dryden  had  not  flatter'd  here, 

His  lyre  had  flameless  been,  his  tribute  all  sincere. 


SELECTION  FROM  ODE  ON   HIS  MAJESTY'S 
BIRTHDAY,  JUNE  4,  1788. 

What  native  genius  taught  the  Britons  bold 

To  guard  their  sea-girt  cliffs  of  old  ? 

'Twas  Liberty  ;  she  taught  disdain 

Of  death,  of  Rome's  imperial  chain. 

She  bade  the  Druid  harp  to  battle  sound. 

In  tones  prophetic,  through  the  gloom  profound 

Of  forest  hoar,  with  holy  foliage  hung  ; 

From  grove  to  grove  the  pealing  prelude  rung ; 

Belinus  call'd  his  painted  tribes  around 


Gbomas  1KHarton.  129 

And,  rough  with  many  a  veteran  scar, 

Swept  the  pale  legions  with  the  scythed  car, 

While  baffled  Caesar  fled,  to  gain 

An  easier  triumph  on  Pharsalia's  plain  ; 

And  left  the  stubborn  isle,  to  stand  elate 

Amidst  a  conquer'd  world,  in  lone  majestic  state. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  PLEASURES  OF 
MELANCHOLY. 

Mother  of  Musings,  contemplation  sage, 

Whose  grotto  stands  upon  the  topmost  rock 

Of  Teneriff ;  'mid  the  tempestuous  night, 

On  which,  in  calmest  meditation  held, 

Thou  hear'st  with  howling  winds  the  beating  rain, 

And  drifting  hail  descend  ;  or  if  the  skies 

Unclouded  shine,  and  through  the  blue  serene 

Pale  Cynthia  rolls  her  silver-axled  car, 

Whence  gazing  steadfast  on  the  spangled  vault 

Raptur'd  thou  sitt'st,  while  murmurs  indistinct 

Of  distant  billows  soothe  thy  pensive  ear 

With  hoarse  and  hollow  sounds  ;  secure,  self-blest. 

There  oft  thou  listen'st  to  the  wild  uproar 

Of  fleets  encount'ring,  that  in  whispers  low 

Ascends  the  rocky  summit,  where  thou  dwell'st 

Remote  from  man,  conversing  with  the  spheres ! 

O  lead  me,  queen  sublime,  to  solemn  glooms 

Congenial  with  my  soul  ;  to  cheerless  shades, 

To  ruin's  seats,  to  twilight  cells  and  bow'rs, 

Where  thoughtful  Melancholy  loves  to  muse, 

Her  fav'rite  midnight  haunts.     The  laughing  scenes 

Of  purple  spring,  where  all  the  wanton  train 

Of  smiles  and  graces  seem  to  lead  the  dance 

In  sportive  round,  while  from  their  hands  they  show'r 

Ambrosial  blooms  and  flow'rs,  no  longer  charm  ; 

Tempe,  no  more  I  court  thy  balmy  breeze, 

Adieu,  green  vales  !  ye  broider'd  meads,  adieu  ! 

Beneath  yon  ruin'd  Abbey's  moss-grown  piles 

Oft  let  me  sit  at  twilight  hour  of  eve, 

Where  through  some  western  window  the  pale  moon 

Pours  her  long-levell'd  rule  of  streaming  light ; 

While  sullen  sacred  silence  reigns  around, 

Save  the  lone  screech-owl's  note,  who  builds  his  bow'r 

Amid  the  moul'dring  caverns  dark  and  damp, 


x30  Gbomas  Martom 

On  the  calm  breeze,  that  rustles  in  the  leaves 

Of  flaunting  ivy,  that  with  mantle  green 

Invests  some  wasted  tow'r.     Or  let  me  tread 

Its  neighbouring  walks  of  pines,  where  mus'd  of  old 

The  cloister'd  brothers:  through  the  gloomy  void 

That  far  extends  beneath  their  ample  arch 

As  on  I  pace,  religious  horror  wraps 

My  soul  in  dread  repose.     But  when  the  world 

Is  clad  in  midnight's  raven-colour'd  robe, 

'Mid  hollow  charnel  let  me  watch  the  flame 

Of  taper  dim,  shedding  a  livid  glare 

O'er  the  wan  heaps ;  while  airy  voices  talk 

Along  the  glimm'ring  walls  ;  or  ghostly  shape 

At  distance  seen,  invites  with  beck'ing  hand 

My  lonesome  steps,  through  the  far  winding  vaults. 

Nor  undelightful  is  the  solemn  noon 

Of  night,  when  haply  wakeful  from  my  couch 

I  start :  lo,  all  is  motionless  around  ! 

Roars  not  the  rushing  wind  ;  the  sons  of  men 

And  every  beast  in  mute  oblivion  lie ; 

All  nature's  hush'd  in  silence  and  in  sleep. 

0  then  how  fearful  is  it  to  reflect 

That  through  the  still  globe's  awful  solitude, 
No  being  wakes  but  me  !  till  stealing  sleep 
My  drooping  temples  bathes  in  opiate  dews. 
Nor  then  let  dreams  of  wanton  folly  born, 
My  senses  lead  through  flow'ry  paths  of  joy  ; 
But  let  the  sacred  genius  of  the  night 
Such  mystic  visions  send,  as  Spenser  saw 
When  through  bewild'ring  fancy's  magic  maze, 
To  the  fell  house  of  Busyrane,  he  led 
Th'  urishaken  Britomart ;  or  Milton  knew 
When  in  abstracted  thought  he  first  conceived 
All  heav'n  in  tumult,  and  the  seraphim 
Come  tow'ring,  arm'd  in  adamant  and  gold. 
Let  others  love  soft  summer's  ev'ning  smiles, 
As  list'ning  to  the  distant  water-fall, 
They  mark  the  blushes  of  the  streaky  west ; 

1  choose  the  pale  December's  foggy  glooms. 
Then  with  the  sullen  shades  of  ev'ning  close, 
Where  through  the  room  a  blindly-glimm'ring  gleam 
The  dying  embers  scatter,  far  remote 

From  mirth's  mad  shouts,  that  through  the  illumin'd  roof 
Resound  with  festive  echo,  let  me  sit, 
Blest  with  the  lowly  crickets  drowsy  dirge. 
Then  let  my  thought  contemplative  explore 
This  fleeting  state  of  things,  the  vain  delights, 


"let  others  love  soft  summer's  ev'ning  smiles, 
as  list'ning  to  the  distant  water-fall, 
they  mark  the  blushes  of  the  streaky  west:" 

—  Page  130. 


Gbomae  barton.  131 

The  fruitless  toils,  that  still  our  search  elude, 
As  through  the  wilderness  of  life  we  rove. 
This  sober  hour  of  silence  will  unmask 
False  folly's  smile,  that  like  the  dazzling  spells 
Of  wily  Comus  cheat  th'  unweeting  eye 
With  blear  illusion,  and  persuade  to  drink 
That  charmed  cup,  which  reason's  mintage  fair 
Unmoulds,  and  stamps  the  monster  on  the  man. 
Eager  we  taste,  but  in  the  luscious  draught 
Forget  the  poisonous  dregs  that  lurk  beneath. 


OXFORD. 

(From  "  The  Triumph  of  Isis."      Written  in  174Q.) 

Ye  fretted  pinnacles,  ye  fanes  sublime, 

Ye  towers  that  wear  the  mossy  vest  of  time ! 

Ye  massy  piles  of  old  munificence, 

At  once  the  pride  of  learning  and  defence; 

Ye  cloisters  pale,  that  lengthening  to  the  sight, 

To  contemplation,  step  by  step,  invite  ; 

Ye  high-arch 'd  walks,  where  oft  the  whispers  clear 

Of  harps  unseen  have  swept  the  poet's  ear; 

Ye  temples  dim,  where  pious  Duty  pays 

Her  holy  hymns  of  ever-echoing  praise ; 

Lo  !  your  lov'd  Isis,  from  the  bordering  vale, 

With  all  a  mother's  fondness  bids  you  hail ! — 

Hail,  Oxford,  hail !  of  all  that's  good  and  great; 

Of  all  that's  fair,  the  guardian  and  the  seat ; 

Nurse  of  each  brave  pursuit,  each  generous  aim, 

By  truth  exalted  to  the  throne  of  fame ! 

Like  Greece  in  science  and  in  liberty, 

As  Athens  learn 'd,  as  Lacedemon  free! 

Ev'n  now,  confess'd  to  my  adoring  eyes, 
In  awful  ranks  thy  gifted  sons  arise. 
Tuning  to  nightly  tale  his  British  reeds, 
Thy  genuine  bards  immortal  Chaucer  leads : 
His  hoary  head  o'erlooks  the  gazing  choir, 
And  beams  on  all  around  celestial  fire. 
With  graceful  step  see  Addison  advance, 
The  sweetest  child  of  Attic  elegance : 
See  Chillingworth  the  depths  of  doubt  explore, 
And  Selden  ope  the  rolls  of  ancient  lore : 
To  all  but  his  belov'd  embrace  deny'd, 
See  Locke  lead  Reason,  his  majestic  bride: 


i32  Gbomas  barton. 

See  Hammond  pierce  religion's  golden  mine, 
And  spread  the  treasur'd  stores  of  truth  divine. 

All  who  to  Albion  gave  the  arts  of  peace 
And  best  the  labours  plann'd  of  letter'd  ease  : 
Who  taught  with  truth,  or  with  persuasion  mov'd  ; 
Who  sooth'd  with  numbers,  or  with  sense  improv'd  ; 
Who  rang'd  the  powers  of  reasons,  or  refin'd, 
All  that  adorn 'd  or  humanised  the  mind  ; 
Each  priest  of  health,  that  mixed  the  balmy  bowl, 
To  rear  frail  man,  and  stay  the  fleeting  soul ; 
All  crowd  around,  and  echoing  to  the  sky 
Hail,  Oxford,  hail !  with  filial  transport  cry. 

And  see  yon  sapient  train  !  with  liberal  aim, 
'Twas  theirs  new  plans  of  liberty  to  frame ; 
And  on  the  Gothic  gloom  of  slavish  sway 
To  shed  the  dawn  of  intellectual  day. 
With  mild  debate  each  musing  feature  glows, 
And  well  weigh 'd  counsels  mark  their  meaning  brows. 
"  Lo  !  these  the  leaders  of  thy  patriot  line," 
A  Raleigh,  Hamden,  and  a  Somers  shine. 
These  from  thy  source  the  bold  contagion  caught, 
Their  future  sons  the  great  example  taught : 
While  in  each  youth  th'  hereditary  flame 
Still  blazes,  unextinguish'd,  and  the  same  ! 
Nor  all  the  tasks  of  thoughtful  peace  engage, 
'Tis  thine  to  form  the  hero  as  the  sage. 
I  see  the  sable-suited  prince  advance 
Witli  lilies  crown'd,  the  spoils  of  bleeding  France, 
Edward.     The  muses  in  yon  cloister'd  shade, 
Bound  on  his  maiden  thigh  the  martial  blade : 
Bade  him  the  steel  for  British  freedom  draw, 
And  Oxford  taught  the  deeds  that  Cressy  saw. 

And  see,  great  father  of  the  sacred  band, 
The  patriot  King  before  me  seems  to  stand, 
He  by  the  bloom  of  this  gay  vale  beguil'd 
That  cheer'd  with  lively  green  the  shaggy  wild, 
Hither  of  yore,  forlorn,  forgotten  maid, 
The  muse  in  prattling  infancy  convey'd ; 
From  vandal  rage  the  helpless  virgin  bore, 
And  fixed  her  cradle  on  my  friendly  shore : 
Soon  grew  the  maid  beneath  his  fostering  hand, 
Soon  stream'd  her  blessings  o'er  the  enlighten'd  land. 
Though  simple  was  the  dome,  where  first  to  dwell 
She  deign'd,  and  rude  her  early  Saxon  cell, 
Lo !  now  she  holds  her  state  in  sculptur'd  bowers, 
And  proudly  lifts  to  heaven  her  hundred  towers. 
'Twas  Alfred  first  with  letters  and  with  laws, 


'  FOR  THEM   THE   MOON   WITH    CLOUDLESS   RAY 
MOUNTS,    TO   ILLUME   THEIR   HOMEWARD    WAY." — Page   133, 


Gbomae  TCHarton,  *33 

Adorn 'd,  as  he  advanc'd,  his  country's  cause: 
He  bade  relent  the  Briton's  stubborn  soul, 
And  sooth'd  to  soft  society's  control 
A  rough  untutor'd  age. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  HAMLET. 

The  hinds  how  blest,  who  ne'er  beguiled 
To  quit  their  hamlet's  hawthorn  wild, 
Nor  haunt  the  crowd,  nor  tempt  the  main, 
For  splendid  care,  and  guilty  gain. 

When  morning's  twilight-tinctured  beam 
Strikes  their  low  thatch  with  slanting  gleam, 
They  rove  abroad  in  ether  blue, 
To  dip  the  scythe  in  fragrant  dew; 
The  sheaf  to  bind,  the  beech  to  fell, 
That  nodding  shades  a  craggy  dell. 

Midst  gloomy  glades,  in  warbles  clear, 
Wild  nature's  sweetest  notes  they  hear, 
On  green  untrodden  banks  they  view 
The  hyacinth's  neglected  hue  ; 
In  their  lone  haunts,  and  woodland  rounds, 
They  spy  the  squirrel's  airy  bounds  ; 
And  startle  from  her  ashen  spray, 
Across  the  glen  the  screaming  jay, 
Each  native  charm  their  steps  explore 
Of  solitude's  sequester'd  store. 
No  riot  mars  the  simple  fare 
That  o'er  a  glimmering  hearth  they  share. 

For  them  the  moon  with  cloudless  ray 
Mounts,  to  illume  their  homeward  way  : 
Their  weary  spirits  to  relieve, 
The  meadows  incense  breathe  at  eve. 

Their  humble  porch  with  honey 'd  flowers 
The  curling  woodbine's  shade  embowers  • 
From  the  small  garden's  thymy  mound 
Their  bees  in  busy  swarms  resound  ; 
Nor  fell  Disease,  before  his  time, 
Hastes  to  consume  life's  golden  prime, 
But  when  their  temples  long  have  wore 
The  silver  crown  of  tresses  hoar, 
As  studious  still  calm  peace  to  keep, 
Beneath  a  flowery  turf  they  sleep. 


I34  Gbomae  TKHarton. 

RETIREMENT. 

(Inscription  in  a  Hermitage.) 

Beneath  this  stony  roof  reclined, 
I  soothe  to  peace  my  pensive  mind  ; 
And  while,  to  shade  my  lowly  cave, 
Embowering  elms  their  umbrage  wave, 
And  while  the  maple  dish  is  mine, — 
The  beechen  cup,  unstained  with  wine, — 
I  scorn  the  gay  licentious  crowd, 
Nor  heed  the  toys  that  deck  the  proud. 

At  morn  I  take  my  customed  round, 
To  mark  how  buds  yon  shrubby  mound, 
And  every  opening  primrose  count, 
That  trimly  paints  my  blooming  mount ; 
Or  o'er  the  sculptures,  quaint  and  rude 
That  grace  my  gloomy  solitude, 
I  teach  in  winding  wreaths  to  stray 
Fantastic  ivy's  gadding  spray. 

At  eve,  within  yon  studious  nook, 

I  ope  my  brass-embossed  book, 

Portrayed  with  many  a  holy  deed 

Of  martyrs,  crowned  with  heavenly  meed  ; 

Then,  as  my  taper  waxes  dim, 

Chant,  ere  I  sleep,  my  measured  hymn, 

And,  at  the  close,  the  gleams  behold 

Of  parting  wings,  bedropt  with  gold. 

While  such  pure  joys  my  bliss  create, 
Who  but  would  smile  at  guilty  state  ? 
Who  but  would  wish  his  holy  lot 
In  calm  oblivion's  humble  grot  ? 
Who  but  would  cast  his  pomp  away, 
To  take  my  staff,  and  amice  gray, 
.  And  to  the  world's  tumultuous  stage 
Prefer  the  blameless  hermitage  ? 


TO  SLEEP. 

On  this  my  pensive  pillow,  gentle  Sleep  ! 

Descend  in  all  thy  downy  plumage  drest ; 
Wipe  with  thy  wing  these  eyes  that  wake  to  weep. 

And  place  thy  crown  of  poppies  on  my  breast. 


'reluctant  comes  the  timid  spring." — Page  135. 


Gbomas  barton.  135 

O  steep  my  senses  in  oblivion's  balm, 

And  soothe  my  throbbing  pulse  with  lenient  hand  ; 
This  tempest  of  my  boiling  blood  becalm  ! 

Despair  grows  mild  at  thy  supreme  command. 


FROM  EURIPIDES. 

MUSIC  !  why  thy  power  employ 
Only  for  the  sons  of  joy  ? 
Only  for  the  smiling  guests 
At  natal  or  at  nuptial  feasts  ? 
Rather  thy  lenient  numbers  pour 
On  those  whom  secret  griefs  devour; 
And  with  some  softly  whisper'd  air 
Smooth  the  brow  of  dumb  despair. 


SELECTION  FROM  THE  FIRST  OF  APRIL. 

With  dalliance  rude  young  Zephyr  woos 

Coy  May.     Full  oft  with  kind  excuse 

The  boisterous  boy  the  fair  denies, 

Or  with  a  scornful  smile  complies. 

Mindful  of  disaster  past, 

And  shrinking  at  the  northern  blast, . 

The  sleety  storm  returning  still, 

The  morning  hoar,  and  evening  chill ; 

Reluctant  comes  the  timid  Spring. 


The  fresh  turn'd  soil  with  tender  blades, 
Thinly  the  sprouting  barley  shades  ; 
Fringing  the  forest's  devious  edge, 
Half  rob'd  appears  the  hawthorn  hedge ; 
Or  to  the  distant  eye  displays 
Weakly  green  its  budding  sprays. 

The  swallow,  for  a  moment  seen, 
Skims  in  haste  the  village  green  ; 
From  the  gray  moor,  on  feeble  wing, 
The  screaming  plovers  idly  spring ; 
The  butterfly,  gay-painted  soon, 
Explores  awhile  the  tepid  noon  ; 
And  fondly  trusts  its  tender  dyes 
To  fickle  suns,  and  flattering  skies. 


136  Gbomas  TKHarton. 

Fraught  with  a  transient,  frozen  shower, 
If  a  cloud  should  haply  lower, 
Sailing  o'er  the  landscape  dark, 
Mute  on  a  sudden  is  the  lark  ; 
But  when  gleams  the  sun  again 
O'er  the  pearl-besprinkled  plain, 
And  from  behind  his  watery  veil 
Looks  through  the  thin  descending  hail  ; 
She  mounts,  and,  lessening  to  the  sight, 
Salutes  the  blithe  return  of  light, 
And  high  her  tuneful  track  pursues 
Mid  the  dim  rainbow's  scatter 'd  hues. 

Where  in  venerable  rows 
Widely  waving  oaks  enclose 
The  moat  of  yonder  antique  hall, 
Swarm  the  rooks  with  clamorous  call  : 
And  to  the  toils  of  nature  true, 
Wreath  their  capacious  nests  anew. 


SLEEP. 

COME,  gentle  Sleep  !  attend  thy  votary's  prayer, 
And  though  Death's  image,  to  my  couch  repair; 
How  sweet,  though  lifeless,  yet  with  life  to  lie, 
And  without  dying,  oh,  how  sweet  to  die  ! 


MONODY. 

WRITTEN   NEAR  STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 

Avon,  thy  rural  views,  thy  pastures  wild, 
The  willows  that  o'erhang  thy  twilight  edge, 
Their  boughs  entangling  with  th'  embattled  sedge  ; 
Thy  brink  with  watery  foliage  quaintly  fring'd, 
Thy  surface  with  reflected  verdure  ting'd ; 
Soothe  me  with  many  a  pensive  pleasure  mild. 
But  while  I  muse,  that  here  the  bard  divine 
Whose  sacred  dust  yon  high-arch'd  aisles  enclose, 
Where  the  tall  windows  rise  in  stately  rows 

Above  th'  embowering  shade. 
Here  first,  at  fancy's  fairy-circled  shrine, 
Of  daisies  pied  his  infant  offering  made ; 
Here  playful  yet,  in  stripling  years  unripe, 
Fram'd  of  thy  reeds  a  shrill  and  artless  pipe  ; 


abomas  TIMartom  *37 

Sudden  thy  beauties,  Avon,  all  are  fled, 
As  at  the  waving  of  some  magic  wand  ; 
An  holy  trance  my  charmed  spirit  wings, 
And  awful  shapes  of  warriors  and  of  kings 

People  thy  busy  mead, 
Like  spectres  swarming  to  the  wizard's  hall ; 
And  slowly  pace,  and  point  with  trembling  hand 
The  wounds  ill-covered  by  the  purple  pall. 
Before  me  Pity  seems  to  stand 
A  weeping  mourner,  smote  with  anguish  sore, 
To  see  Misfortune  rend  in  frantic  mood 
His  robe,  with  regal  woes  embroider'd  o'er. 
Pale  Terror  leads  the  visionary  band, 
And  sternly  shakes  his  sceptre,  dropping  blood. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  SONNETS. 


ON   REVISITING   THE   RIVER   LODON. 

Ah!  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run 

Since  first  I  trod  thy  banks  with  alders  crowned, 

And  thought  my  way  was  all  through  fairy  ground, 

Beneath  the  azure  sky  and  golden  sun, 

When  first  my  Muse  to  lisp  her  notes  begun  ! 

While  pensive  Memory  traces  back  the  round 

Which  fills  the  varied  interval  between  ; 

Much  pleasure,  more  of  sorrow  marks  the  scene. 

Sweet  native  stream  !  those  skies  and  sun  so  pure, 

No  more  return  to  cheer  my  evening  road  ! 

Yet  still  one  joy  remains,  that  not  obscure 

Nor  useless,  all  my  vacant  days  have  flowed, 

From  youth's  gay  dawn  to  manhood's  prime  mature  ; 

Nor  with  the  muse's  laurel  unbestowed. 


II. 

WRITTEN    AT   WINSLADE,    HAMPSHIRE. 

WiNSLADE,  thy  beech-capt  hills,  with  waving  grain 
Mantled,  thy  chequer'd  views  of  wood  and  lawn, 
Whilom  could  charm,  or  when  the  gradual  dawn 
Gan  the  gray  mist  with  orient  purple  stain, 
Or  evening  glimmer'd  o'er  the  folded  train  ; 


i38  Gbomas  umarton. 

Her  fairest  landscapes  whence  my  muse  has  drawn, 
Too  free  with  servile  courtly  phrase  to  fawn, 
Too  weak  to  try  the  buikin's  stately  strain ; 
Yet  now  no  more  thy  slopes  of  beech  and  corn, 
Nor  views  invite,  since  he  far  distant  strays, 
With  whom  I  trac'd  their  sweets  at  eve  and  morn, 
From  Albion  far,  to  cull  Hesperian  bays ; 
In  this  alone  they  please,  howe'er  forlorn, 
That  still  they  can  recall  those  happier  days. 

III. 

WRITTEN   IN  A   BLANK   LEAF  OF    DUGDALE'S   MONASTICON. 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage, 

By  fancy's  genuine  feelings  unbeguiled, 

Of  painful  pedantry,  the  poring  child, 

Who  turns  of  these  proud  domes  the  historic  page, 

Now  sunk  by  time,  and  Henry's  fiercer  rage. 

Think'st  thou  the  warbling  muses  never  smiled 

On  his  lone  hours  ?     Ingenious  views  engage 

His  thoughts,  on  themes  unclassic  falsely  styled, 

Intent.     While  cloistered  piety  displays 

Her  mouldering  roll,  the  piercing  eye  explores 

New  manners,  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days, 

Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured  stores. 

Not  rough  nor  barren  are  the  winding  ways 

Of  hoar  antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers. 

IV. 

WRITTEN  AT  STONEHENGE. 

Thou  noblest  monument  of  Albion's  isle  ! 
Whether  by  Merlin's  aid  from  Scythia's  shore, 
To  Amber's  fatal  plain  Pendragon  bore, 
Huge  frame  of  giant-hands,  the  mighty  pile, 
T'  entomb  his  Britains  slain  by  Hengist's  guile ; 
Or  Druid  priests,  sprinkled  with  human  gore, 
Taught  mid  thy  massy  maze  their  mystic  lore; 
Or  Danish  chiefs,  enrich'd  with  savage  spoil, 
To  victory's  idol  vast,  and  unhewn  shrine, 
Rear'd  the  rude  heap ;  or,  in  thy  hallow'd  round, 
Repose  the  Kings  of  Brutus'  genuine  line  ; 
Or  here  those  kings  in  solemn  state  were  crown 'd : 
Studious  to  trace  thy  wondrous  origine, 
We  muse  on  many  an  ancient  tale  renown'd. 


Gbomas  lailarton*  139 


WRITTEN   AFTER   SEEING   WILTON    HOUSE. 

From  Pembroke's  princely  dome,  where  mimic  art 

Decks  with  a  magic  hand  the  dazzling  bow'rs, 

Its  living  hues  where  the  warm  pencil  pours, 

And  breathing  forms  from  the  rude  marble  start, 

How  to  life's  humbler  scene  can  I  depart  ? 

My  breast  all  glowing  from  those  gorgeous  tow'rs, 

In  my  low  cell  how  cheat  the  sullen  hours  ! 

Vain  the  complaint :  for  fancy  can  impart 

(To  fate  superior,  and  to  fortune's  doom) 

Whate'er  adorns  the  stately-storied  hall, 

She,  'mid  the  dungeon's  solitary  gloom, 

Can  dress  the  graces  in  their  Attic  pall, 

Bid  the  green  landslip's  vernal  beauty  bloom  ; 

And  in  bright  trophies  clothe  the  twilight  wall. 

VI. 
ON   SUMMER. 

While  summer  suns  o'er  the  gay  prospect  played, 

Through  Surrey's  verdant  scenes,  where  Epsom  spreads 

'Mid  intermingling  elms  her  flowery  meads, 

And  Hascombe's  hills,  in  towering  groves  array  *d, 

Rear'd  its  romantic  steep,  with  mind  serene 

I  journey'd  blithe.     Full  pensive  I  return'd  ; 

For  now  my  breast  with  hopeless  passion  burn'd, 

Wet  with  hoar  mists  appear'd  the  gaudy  scene 

Which  late  in  careless  indolence  I  pass'd  ; 

And  autumn  all  around  those  hues  had  cast 

Where  past  delight  my  recent  grief  might  trace. 

Sad  change,  that  Nature  a  congenial  gloom 

Should  wear,  when  most  my  cheerless  mood  to  chase, 

I  wished  her  green  attire  and  wonted  bloom  ! 


HENRY  JAMES  PYE. 

Born   in   London   in   1745.     Made    laureate  in  1790.     Died  in  1813. 

(Reign  of  George  III.) 

When  Warton  died,  there  were  many  suggestions  from  the 
critics  that  the  Laureateship  be  abolished.  Edward  Gibbon 
said  :  "  This  is  the  best  time  for  not  filling  up  the  office,  when 
the  prince  is  a  man  of  virtue,  and  the  poet  just  departed  was  a 
man  of  genius." 

Byron  said  that  Henry  James  Pye  was  a  man  eminently 
respectable  in  everything  but  his  poetry  ;  and  his  critics  and 
lampooners  fret  themselves  over  the  puzzle  why  he  was  made 
poet  laureate.  The  Chronique  Scandalense,  seeking  for  a 
solution,  finds  it  in  the  fact  that  once  Pye  and  George  III.  were 
hunting  together.  The  king  tumbled  and  lost  his  wig.  Pye 
hastened  to  raise  his  sovereign  from  his  undignified  position, 
but  His  Majesty,  with  ill-concealed  anxiety,  began  to  search  in 
the  bog  for  his  wig.  *'  Never  mind  your  royal  wig,"  said  Pye 
impulsively  ;  "  I  care  more  for  the  safety  of  your  sacred  Majesty's 
person.  I  sincerely  trust  your  Majesty  is  unhurt."  This  solici- 
tude impressed  the  king  to  such  an  extent  that  when  Warton 
died,  and  a  list  of  candidates  for  the  Laureateship  being  pre- 
sented to  the  king,  he  straightway  recommended  Pye. 

Henry  James  Pye  was  an  aristocrat,  belonged  to  an  ancient 
family  which  had  come  over  to  England  with  the  Conqueror, 
and  had  afterwards  been  connected  with  royalty.  One  of  his 
ancestors  was  Auditor  of  the  Exchequer  in  the  reign  of  James  I. 
It  was  therefore  Sir  Robert  Pye's  duty  to  pay  Ben  Jonson  his 
annual  grant,  and  it  was  to  him  that  Jonson  addressed  his 
famous  epistle  when  the  salary  was  in  arrears.  Sir  Robert 
Pye's  son  married  the  daughter  of  John  Hampden. 

It  is  not  with  his  ancestors,  however,  but  with  the  laureate 
himself  that  we  must  concern  ourselves.  His  childhood  was  a 
happy  one.  Taught  by  a  private  tutor  at  home,  he  was  studious 
and  precocious,  read  Homer  at  ten  years  of  age,  and  delighted 
in  mental  gymnastics  such  as  in  these  days  are  unknown  to 
our  children. 

At  seventeen  he  entered  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  and  at 
twenty-one  he  left  the  university  on  account  of  the  death  of  his 
father.     The  estate  was  a  large  one,  and  he  felt  his  responsi- 


HENRY   JAMES   PYE. 


Ibenrg  James  H>ge,  141 

•  bility  greatly.  The  father's  debts  amounted  to  over  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds,  but  as  these  were  not  chargeable  to  the  estate  one 
might  suppose  Pye  would  have  quietly  taken  possession  of  his 
inheritance  and  left  the  debts  alone.  But  his  honourable  nature 
prompted  him  to  do  far  otherwise.  He  assumed  the  whole  bur- 
den of  these  debts.  Other  misfortunes  came  swiftly  on  the  heels 
of  this  one  ;  and  Pye  was  at  last  forced  to  sell  his  paternal  estate. 
Some  biographers  have  said  that  the  estate  was  sold  to  meet 
the  heavyexpenses  of  Pye's  own  election  to  the  House,  but  this  is 
not  so.  The  whole  action  of  the  poet  tends  to  raise  him  in  the 
estimation  of  all  who  can  appreciate  devotion  to  duty.  Respect- 
able in  everything  but  his  poetry,  we  must  be  sure  to  remember 
that ! 

*'  I  would  rather  be  thought  a  good  Englishman  than  the 
best  poet  or  the  greatest  scholar  that  ever  wrote,"  Pye  once 
said. 

He  had  his  wish.  He  was  a  man  of  culture  and  a  scholar  of 
distinction,  but  the  world  does  not  consider  him  a  great  poet : 
noble,  sincere,  a  man  of  high  principle — an  Englishman  in  the 
truest  and  the  highest  sense  he  must  be  considered. 

It  is  well  to  emphasise  this  fact  about  Pye's  financial  affairs, 
as  even  the  writer  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  articles  attributed 
Pye's  appointment  as  laureate  to  his  having  spent  a  fortune  in 
-electioneering  for  the  ministers  of  state.  But  he  never  had  the 
'pleasure  of  feeling  he  had  a  fortune  to  spend.  It  had  gone  into  a 
[bottomless  abyss.  He  learned  from  his  father's  errors  and  misfor- 
tunes many  a  lesson  which  helped  him  in  his  own  life.  By  econ- 
omy and  thought  he  lived  upon  a  small  amount,  and  he  even 
maintained  his  household  in  comfort,  sometimes  in  elegance. 

A  country  magistrate,  then  elected  a  member  for  Berks,  his 
political  services  commanded  respect.  Then  he  afterwards 
became  Police  Magistrate  of  London.  He  divided  his  time 
ibetween  his  books,  his  parlimentary  and  judicial  duties,  and  the 
outdoor  sports  in  which  he  took  keen  delight.  His  domestic 
life  was  pure  and  happy,  his  wife  a  beautiful  woman  who  was 
devoted  to  him.  His  grace  of  manner,  his  real  charm  of  char- 
acter, won  him  many  friends,  both  in  his  native  county,  where  he 
liked  to  spend  much  of  his  time,  and  in  the  society  of  London. 
Even  the  endless  squibs  and  burlesques  Pye  inspired  on  account 
of  his  laureate  odes  did  not  really  affect  his  reputation  as  an 
industrious  and  cultured  man  of  letters.  One  has  but  to  look  at 
the  list  of  his  voluminous  works  to  see  how  faithfully  he  laboured. 
His  translations  of  Aristotle's  Poetics,  of  Homer,  of  Pindar, 
show  accurate  scholarship  and  elegance  of  phrase ;  his  trans- 
lation of  the  "  Song  of  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton,"  and  of 
Burger's  "  Lenore "  are  fine  and  spirited  ;  his  criticisms  on 
Shakespeare  and  others  show  insight  and  acumen.     Pye's  most 


142  Ibenrg  Samee  fl>ge» 

notable  book  is  the  "  Comments  upon  the  Commentators  oro 
Shakespeare." 

Garrick  was  at  this  time  doing  his  utmost  to  popularise  the 
great  dramatist ;  the  crusade  begun  by  Nicholas  Rowe  in  1709 
was  bearing  good  fruit ;  and  Pye's  own  work  was  timely  and  of 
value.  Pye  was  devoted  to  the  stage,  and  he  tried  his  hand  at 
writing  some  plays,  but  they  are  wholly  forgotten.  For  a  com- 
plete list  of  these  we  have  to  go  to  a  foreign  dictionary:  Eng- 
lish encyclopaedias  ignore  this  industrious,  conscientious  worker. 
Pye's  most  ambitious  work  was  an  epic  poem  on  King  Alfred, 
but  even  he  himself  did  not  speak  highly  of  his  effort,  and  he 
had  no  hope  that  it  would  live.  Indeed,  Pye  was  as  modest  as 
Eusden  had  been  egotistical.  The  contrast  between  them  in 
this  respect  is  well  illustrated  in  their  portraits. 

Many  of  Pye's  minor  poems  show  graceful  fancy  and  have 
considerable  melody  of  versification  and  sparkle  of  style ;  but 
there  is  no  originality  of  thought  in  them,  no  eloquent  fervour, 
no  imaginative  strength.  They  are  rhetorical  efforts  merely. 
His  laureate  odes  are  ardent  and  enthusiastic,  even  if  they  do 
not  soar  very  high.  He  shows  in  them  an  earnest  patriotism  ; 
and  earnestness  of  itself  is  a  form  of  strength  and  power.  But 
Pye,  with  all  his  brilliancy  of  mind  and  his  perseverance  and 
industry,  had  not  the  making  of  a  true  poet,  and  his  work  has 
passed  into  oblivion.  For  twenty-three  years  he  was  poet 
laureate,  and  during  that  time  a  change  had  come  in  English 
poetry.  The  reaction  against  the  artificialism  of  the  age  of  Anne 
had  been  growing  more  and  more  pronounced,  and  had  cul- 
minated in  the  mighty  influence  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth. 
But  Henry  James  Pye  gave  up  no  traditions;  he  was  conserv- 
ative in  his  poetry  as  well  as  in  his  politics  and  his  religion. 
He  wrote  in  obedience  to  the  same  models  that  had  inspired 
Tate,  Eusden,  and  Cibber.  But  poets  like  them  were  hence- 
forth to  have  no  more  a  place  in  the  annals  of  the  Laureateship. 
The  office  was  to  receive  new  honour,  new  dignity,  from  its 
being  held  by  poets  like  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  Tennyson. 

Two  or  three  years  before  his  death- Pye  was  forced  to  live  in 
retirement  on  account  of  the  severe  attacks  of  gout  which 
afflicted  him.  His  sufferings  were  so  great  that  at  the  last  he 
gave  up  writing  the  odes  which  he  had  hitherto  supplied  with 
conscientious  care.  At  Pinner  in  Herts  an  end  came  to  his 
sufferings  on  August  13,  1813. 

Two  important  changes  in  the  Laureateship  which  took  place 
after  the  death  of  Pye  deserve  notice.  For  many  years  the 
odes  which  the  laureates  had  written  on  the  royal  birthdays 
or  great  national  anniversaries,  were  required  odes — nothing 
would  have  excused  their  absence  except  that  which  excuses  a 
man  playing  whist  from  answering  his  partner's  lead  in  trumps. 


These  odes  were  set  to  music  by  the  court  musician,  and  sung 
at  the  state  drawing  rooms.  When  they  were  sung  it  did  not 
matter  if  the  words  were  poor,  nobody  heard  them.  When 
they  were  published,  however,  it  became  necessary  that  some 
degree  of  poetic  merit  be  found  in  them.  When  Pye  let  fall 
his  pen  from  a  dying  hand,  it  was  determined  to  abolish  these 
odes — at  least  to  make  them  dependent  solely  on  the  convenience 
or  inspiration  of  the  laureate.  It  is  said  that  this  change  was 
first  suggested  by  Robert  Southey.  Anyway,  when  the  laurel 
was  offered  to  Southey  he  was  told  he  could  write  when  and 
how  he  pleased,  and  whatever  he  wrote  should  be  read  aloud, 
not  sung. 

The  other  change  consisted  in  commuting  the  tierce  of  wine, 
which  had  first  been  granted  to  Ben  Jonson,  into  an  annual 
grant  of  twenty-seven  pounds,  this  amount  to  be  added  to  the 
original  salary  of  one  hundred  pounds.  The  modern  era  of  the 
Laureateship  had  therefore  commenced.* 

*  From  the  time  that  Ben  Jonson,  by  his  egotism  and  dogmatism,  awakened  the 
ire  of  his  contemporaries  to  the  era  of  Southey  and  Wordsworth  _there -had  been  a 
steady  stream  of  abuse  and  vituperation  directed  at  the  urrfortunate  poets  who  had 
worn  the  laurel  wreath.  The  "  Bon  Gaultier  Ballads,"  published  when  Southey 
died,  were  but  one  of  many  burlesques.  These  clever  verses  began  with  : 
"  Who  would  not  be  the  laureate  bold, 

With  his  butt  of  sherry  to  keep  him  merry, 
And  nothing  to  do  but  pocket  his  gold  ?  " 
Competition  for  the  vacant  Laureateship  takes  place  : 

"  He's  dead,  he's  dead,  the  Laureate's  dead  !     'Twas  thus  the  cry  began, 
And  straightway  every  garret  roof  gave  up  its  minstrel  man  ; 
From  Grub  Street,  and  from  Houndsditch,  and  from  Farringdon  Within, 
The  poets  all  towards  Whitehall  poured  on  with  eldritch  din." 
Among  these  poets  is  Lord  Lytton,  who  steps  forward  and  says  : 
"  And  oh  !  what  head 
More  fit  with  laurel  to  be  garlanded 
Than  this  which,  curled  in  many  a  fragrant  coil, 
Breathes  of  Castalia's  streams, — " 

But  among  the  best  of  these  hits  at  the  poor  sons  of.Apollo  are  those  levelled  at 
Robert  Montgomery,  who  is  made  to  say  : 

"  I  fear  no  rival  for  the  vacant  throne  ; 
No  mortal  thunder  shall  eclipse  my  own  ! 
Let  dark  Macau  lay  chant  his  Roman  lays. 
Let  Monckton  Milnes  go  maunder  for  the  bays.    .    . 
Let  Wordsworth  ask  for  help  from  Peter  Bell, 
Let  Campbell  carol  Copenhagen's  knell.    .    . 
T  care  not, — " 
The  famous  "  Bon  Gaultier  Ballads  "  end  with  : 
"  They  led  our  Wordsworth  to  the  Queen,  she  crowned  him  with  the  bays, 
And  wished  him  many  happy  years,  and  many  quarter  days  ; 
And  if  you'd  have  the  story  told  by  abler  lips  than  mine 
You've  but  to  call  at  Rydal  Mount,  and  taste  the  Laureate's  wine!  " 

In  view  of  the  many  unjust  and  contemptible  things  which  have  been  said  under 
the  thin  veil  of  satire,  is  it  any  wonder  that  Wordsworth,  whose  reverent  and 
tender  soul  recoiled  from  such  degradation  of  his  calling,  should  have  abandoned  all 
thoughts  of  a  journalist's  career  because  he  had,  he  said,  "  come  to  a  fixed  resolu- 
tion to  steer  clear  of  personal  satire  and  devote  himself  entirely  to  literature?" 


SELECTIONS  FROM  PYE. 


ODE  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR,  1791. 


When  from  the  bosom  of  the  mine 

The  magnet  first  to  light  was  thrown, 

Fair  Commerce  hailed  the  gift  divine, 

And  smiling,  claimed  it  for  her  own. 

My  bark  (she  said)  this  gem  shall  guide 

Thro'  paths  of  ocean  yet  untried, 

While  as  my  daring  sons  explore 

Each  rude  inhospitable  shore, 

'Mid  desert  lands  and  ruthless  skies, 

New  seats  of  industry  shall  rise, 

And  culture  wide  extend  its  genial  reign 

Free  as  the  ambient  gale,  and  boundless  as  the  main. 

II. 

But  tyranny  soon  learned  to  seize, 

The  art  improving  science  taught, 

The  white  sail  courts  the  distant  breeze, 

With  horror  and  destruction  fraught  ; 

From  the  tall  mast  fell  War  unfurled 

His  banners  to  a  new-found  world  ; 

Oppression,  armed  with  giant  pride, 

And  bigot  Fury  by  her  side; 

Dire  Desolation  bathed  in  blood, 

Pale  Avarice,  and  her  harpy  brood, 

To  each  affrighted  shore  in  thunder  spoke, 

And  bowed  the  wretched  race  to  slavery's  iron  yoke. 

III. 

Not  such  the  gentler  views  that  urge 
Britannia's  sons  to  dare  the  surge  ; 
Not  such  the  gifts  her  Drake,  her  Raleigh  bore 
To  the  wild  inmates  of  th'  Atlantic  shore, 


f>enrj2  James  pge.  T45 

Teaching"  each  clreer  wood's  pathless  scene 

Tlie  glories  of  their  virgin  queen. 

Nor  such  her  later  chiefs  who  try, 

Impell'd  by  soft  humanity, 

The  boistrous  wave,  the  rugged  coast, 

The  burning  zone,  the  polar  frost, 

That  climes  remote,  and  regions  yet  unknown, 

May  share  a  George's  sway,  and  bless  his  patriot  name. 

IV. 

Warm  Fancy,  kindling  with  delight, 
Anticipates  the  lapse  of  age, 
And  as  she  throws  her  eagle's  flight 
O'er  Time's  yet  undiscovered  page, 
Vast  continents,  now  dark  with  shade, 
She  sees  in  verdure's  robe  arrayed, 
Sees  o'er  each  island's  fertile  steep 
That  frequent  studs  the  southern  deep, 
His  fleecy  charge  the  shepherd  lead, 
The  harvest  wave,  the  vintage  bleed  : 
See  Commerce  springs  of  guiltless  wealth  explore, 
Where  frowns  the  western  world  on  Asia's  neighbouring 
shore. 

v. 

But  lo  !  across  the  black'ning  skies, 

What  swarthy  demon  wings  his  flight? 

At  once  the  transient  landscape  flies, 

The  splendid  vision  sets  in  night. 

And  see  Britannia's  awful  form, 

With  breast  undaunted,  brave  the  storm  : 

Awful,  as  when  her  angry  tide 

O'erwhelmed  the  wrecked  Armada's  pride. 

Awful,  as  when  the  avenging  blow 

Suspending  o'er  a  prostrate  foe, 

She  snatched  in  vic'try's  moment,  prompt  to  save, 

Iberia's  sinking  sons  from  Calpe's  glowing  wave. 

VI. 

Ere  yet  the  tempest's  mingled  sound 

Burst  dreadful  o'er  the  nations  round, 

What  angel  shape,  in  beaming  radiance  dight, 

Pours  through  the  severing  clouds  celestial  light ! 

'Tis  Peace — before  her  seraph  eye 

The  fiends  of  Devastation  fly. 


T4<>  Ibenrp  James  p\?e. 

Auspicious,  round  our  Monarch's  brow 

She  twines  her  olive's  sacred  bough  ; 

This  victory,  she  cries,  is  mine, 

Not  torn  from  war's  terrific  shrine; 

Mine  the  pure  trophies  of  the  wise  and  good, 

Unstained  of  woe,  and  undenTd  with  blood. 


SELECTION  FROM  THE  ODE  FOR  THE  KING'S 
BIRTHDAY,  1792. 

Heard  ye  the  blast  whose  sullen  roar 
Burst  dreadful  from  the  angry  skies  ? 

Saw  ye  against  the  craggy  shore 
The  waves  in  wild  contention  rise  ? 

To  welcome  George's  natal  hour, 
No  vain  display  of  empty  power, 
In  flattery  steep'd,  no  soothing  lay 
Shall  strains  of  adulation  pay  ; 
But  Commerce  rolling  deep  and  wide 
To  Albion's  shores  her  swelling  tide, 
But  Themis'  olive  cinctur'd  head, 
And  white  rob'd  Peace  by  Victory  led, 
Shall  fill  thy  breast  with  virtuous  pride, 
Shall  give  him  power  to  truth  allied  ; 
Joys  which  alone  a  patriot  King  can  prove, 
A  nation's  strength  his  power,  his  pride  a  people's 
love. 


SELECTION  FROM  THE  ODE  FOR  THE  NEW 
YEAR,  1797. 

Genius  of  Albion,  hear, 

Grasp  the  strong  shield,  and  shake  the  avenging  spear. 

By  wreaths  thy  hardy  sons  of  yore 

From  Gallia's  crest  victorious  tore, 

By  Edward's  lily-blazon'd  shield  ; 

By  Agincourt's  high  trophy'd  field  ; 

By  rash  Iberia's  naval  pride, 

Whelmed  by  Eliza's  barks  beneath  the  stormy  tide ; 

Call  forth  the  warrior  race  again, 

Breathing  to  ancient  mood  the  soul-inspiring  strain. 

To  arms  !  your  ensign  straight  display  ! 

Now  set  the  battle  in  array, 


1benr£  James  H>ge.  T47 

The  oracle  for  war  declares, 
Success  depends  upon  our  hearts  and  spears. 
Britons,  strike  home!  revenge  your  country's  wrongs; 
Fight,  and  record  yourselves  in  Druid  songs. 


BIRTHDAY  ODE  FOR  THE  YEAR  1800. 

God  of  our  father's  rise, 

And  through  the  thund'ring  skies 

Thy  vengeance  urge; 
In  awful  justice  red, 
Be  thy  dread  arrows  sped, 
But  guard  our  Monarch's  head, 

God  save  great  George. 

Still  on  our  Albion  smile, 
Still,  o'er  this  favoured  isle, 

O,  spread  thy  wing  ! 
To  make  each  blessing  sure, 
To  make  our  fame  endure, 
To  make  our  rights  secure, 

God  save  our  King  ! 

To  the  loud  trumpet's  throat, 
To  the  shrill  clarion's  note, 

Now  jocund  sing. 
From  every  open  foe, 
From  every  traitor's  blow, 
Virtue  defend  his  brow, 

God  guard  our  King. 


SELECTION  FROM  NAUCRATIA,  OR  NAVAL 
DOMINION. 

Arm'd  in  the  cause  on  Chalgrove's  fatal  plain, 

Where  sorrowing  Freedom  mourns  her  Hampden  slain, 

Say,  shall  the  moralising  bard  presume, 

From  his  proud  hearse  to  tear  one  warlike  plume, 

Because  a  Cassar  or  a  Cromwell  wore 

An  impious  wreath,  wet  with  their  country's  gore  ? 

Columbus'  eye,  in  transports  of  amaze, 
The  spacious  region  of  delight  surveys, 
Charming  with  real  scenes  the  raptur'd  view, 
Fairer  than  all  his  warmest  wishes  drew  ,* 


148  Ibenrg  James  fl>£& 

Isles  in  fair  spring's  eternal  livery  dight, 
The  fair  savannah's  space,  the  mountain's  height ; 
Forests  of  growth  gigantic,  that  display 'd 
O'er  spacious  continents  impervious  shade  ; 
Fields  that,  uncultur'd,  harvests  rich  produce, 
Spontaneous  fruits  that  yield  ambrosial  juice  ; 
And  rivers  that  their  sea-broad  currents  rolled 
Through  groves  of  perfume,  and  o'er  sands  of  gold. 


SHOOTING. 

When  the  last  sun  of  August's  fiery  reign 
Now  bathes  his  radiant  forehead  in  the  main, 
The  panoply  by  sportive  heroes  worn 
Is  rang'd  in  order  for  the  ensuing  morn ; 
Forth  from  the  summer  guard  of  bolt  and  lock 
Comes  the  thick  guetre,  and  the  fustian  frock. 
With  curious  skill,  the  deathful  tube  is  made, 
Clean  as  the  firelock  of  the  spruce  parade  : 
Yet  let  no  polish  of  the  sportsman's  gun 
Flash  like  the  soldier's  weapon  to  the  sun, 
Or  the  bright  steel's  refulgent  glare  presume, 
To  penetrate  the  peaceful  forest's  gloom  ; 
But  let  it  take  the  brown's  more  sober  hue, 
Or  the  dark  lustre  of  the  enamell'd  blue. 
Let  the  close  pouch  the  wadded  tow  contain, 
The  leaden  pellets,  and  the  nitrous  grain ; 
And  wisely  cautious,  with  preventive  care, 
Be  the  spare  flint  and  ready  turnscrew  there ; 
While  the  slung  net  is  open  to  receive 
Each  prize  the  labours  o"f  the  clay  shall  give. 


FROM  ALFRED. 

{Book  VI.     Consequence  of  the  Battle  of  Eddington.) 

SOON  as  the  morn,  in  rosy  mantle  dight, 
Spread  o'er  the  dewy  Hills  her  orient  light, 
The  victor  monarch  ranged  his  warrior  train 
In  martial  order  on  the  embattled  plain  ; 
Ready  to  front  again  the  storm  of  fight, 
Or  urge  the  advantage  and  pursue  the  flight ; 
But  not  the  horizon's  ample  range  could  show 
A  trace,  a  vestige,  of  the  vanquished  foe. 
Now  from  the  exulting  host  in  triumph  peal'd 
The  shouts  of  conquest  shake  the  echoing  field  ; 


'HER   HEART  A   WARMER   SENSE  OF   PITY   FEEIS. 

—/>tiftf  140. 


Ibenrg  James  t>ye.  149 

While  to  the  sheltering-  convent's  hallow'd  walls 

A  softer  voice  the  laurell'd  hero  calls, 

Where,  from  the  bloody  scene  of  fight  removed, 

Trembling  'mid  hope  and  fear  for  all  she  loved, 

Elsitha  prostrate  on  the  earth  implored 

Blessings  on  Albion's  arms  and  Albion's  lord. 

Sweet  were  the  warrior's  feelings  when  he  press'd 

His  lovely  consort  to  his  beating  breast ; 

Sweet  too,  Elsitha,  thine — with  conquest  crown'd 

To  see  the  mighty  chief  in  arms  renown 'd, 

Though  loud  the  cheering  shouts  of  conquest  rise, 

And  war's  triumphant  clangour  rends  the  skies, 

Forego  the  scenes  of  public  joy  awhile, 

To  share  the  bliss  of  love's  domestic  smile. 

Yet  such,  alas  !  of  human  joy  the  state, 

Some  grief  on  Fortune's  brightest  hours  must  wait 

Amid  the  victor  laurel's  greenest  wreath, 

Twines  the  funereal  bough  of  pain  and  death. 

Elsitha's  eye  among  the  conquering  train 

Seeks  many  a  friend  and  near  ally  in  vain. 

Leofric,  her  brother's  heir,  whose  ardent  breast 

Her  influence  mild  and  bland  had  oft  repress'd, 

Would  Indignation's  angry  frown  reprove, 

Or  warn  him  from  the  dangerous  smiles  of  Love  : 

Leofric,  who  when  the  dawn  awoke  her  fears, 

Dried,  with  consoling  voice,  her  gushing  tears, 

Mangled  and  lifeless  from  the  combat  borne, 

Refutes  at  eve  the  promised  hope  of  morn. 

And,  as  her  heart  the  painful  image  draws, 

Of  youthful  Donald  bleeding  in  her  cause, 

The  royal  warrior,  beautiful  and  brave, 

A  timeless  victim  of  the  silent  grave, 

O'er  her  swol'n  breast  a  softer  sorrow  steals, 

Her  heart  a  warmer  sense  of  pity  feels, 

While  tears,  as  pure  as  seraph  eyes  might  shed, 

Flow  o'er  his  memory  and  embalm  him  dead. 

Even  Alfred,  when  his  firmer  looks  survey 

The  field  of  fate  in  morning's  sober  ray, 

Sees  Victory's  guerdon,  though  with  safety  fraught, 

By  blood  of  kindred  heroes  dearly  bought. 

Though  myriads  saved  from  slavery  and  death, 

Their  spirits  waft  to  Heaven  with  grateful  breath  : 

Yet  chiefs  of  noble  race  and  nobler  worth, 

Glory  and  grace  of  Albion's  parent  earth, 

Extended  pale  and  lifeless  in  his  sight, 

Check  the  tumultuous  tide  of  full  delight ; 

And  as  the  hymns  of  praise  ascend  the  air, 


x5°  Ibenrfc  James  fl>££. 

His  bosom  bows  in  penitence  and  prayer, 
O'er  the  red  sward  Contrition's  sorrows  flow, 
Though  Freedom  steel'd  its  edge  and  Justice  sped  the 

blow. 
But  when  he  views  along  the  tented  field, 
With  trailing  banner  and  inverted  shield, 
Young  Donald  borne  by  Scotia's  weeping  bands, 
In  deeper  woe  the  generous  hero  stands. 
"  O,  early  lost,"  with  faltering  voice  he  cried, 
11  In  the  fresh  bloom  of  youth  and  glory's  pride; 
Dear,  gallant  friend  !  while  memory  here  remains, 
While  flows  the  tide  of  life  through  Alfred's  veins, 
Ne'er  shall  thy  virtues  from  this  breast  depart, 
Ne'er  Donald's  worth  be  blotted  from  this  heart. 
Yet  the  stern  despot  of  the  silent  tomb, 
Who  spreads  o'er  youth  and  age  an  equal  doom, 
Shall  here  no  empire  boast — his  ruthless  dart 
That  pierced  with  cruel  point  thy  manly  heart, 
Snatch'd  from  his  iron  grasp  by  hovering  Fame, 
Graves  in  eternal  characters  thy  name. 
All  who  the  radiance  of  thy  morn  have  seen, 
Shall  augur  what  thy  noon-tide  ray  had  been 
If  Fate's  decree  had  given  thy  rising  sun 
Its  full  career  of  glory  to  have  run  ; 
But  oft  are  Valour's  fires,  that  early  blaze, 
Quench'd  in  the  crimson  cloud  their  ardours  raise. 
Ah,  wretched  Gregor !  how  can  words  relate 
To  thy  declining  age  thy  Donald's  fate? 
For  while  of  such  a  son  the  untimely  doom 
Drags  thy  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  tomb, 
Each  tale  of  praise  that  tries  to  soothe  thy  care, 
But  wounds  thy  heart  and  plants  new  horrors  there. 
On  me,  on  England's  cause,  the  curse  shall  fall, 
On  me  the  wretched  sire  shall  frantic  call ; 
Who  from  his  arms  his  soul's  last  solace  led 
On  distant  plains  to  mingle  with  the  dead. 
Then,  O,  my  valiant  friends,  whose  ears  attest 
Of  Donald's  dying  voice  the  sad  bequest, 
With  yours  my  dearest  care  shall  be  combined 
To  soothe  the  tempests  of  your  monarch's  mind  ; 
With  you  protect  from  War's,  from  Faction's  rage, 
The  feeble  remnant  of  his  waning  age. 
As  round  our  isle  the  azure  billow  roars, 
From  all  the  World  dividing  Britain's  shores, 
Within  its  fence  be  Britain's  nations  join'd 
A  world  themselves,  yet  friends  of  human  kind." 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

Born  in  Bristol,  1774.     Made  Laureate  in  1813.     Died  in  1843. 

(Reigns  of  George  III.,  George  IV.,  William  IV.,  and  Victoria.) 

Southey's  acknowledged  power  as  a  prose  writer  has 
obscured  his  fame  as  a  poet.  Then  he  has  suffered  by  com- 
parison with  his  greater  associates,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge. 
But  viewing  his  poetical  work  by  itself,  it  will  be  found  that  it 
has  qualities  which  go  far  to  justify  his  own  delight  and  confi- 
dence in  it.  The  world  is  beginning  not  only  to  estimate 
Southey  as  he  deserves,  but  to  realise  that  it  needs  him  and  his 
work.  The  romantic  revival  of  the  present  time  will  inevitably 
make  his  warlike  and  spirited  epics  popular,  and  the  charm 
of  his  pure  and  healthful  views  of  life  will  be  found  to  be 
irresistible.  Poets  have  not  inappropriately  been  termed  a 
waiting  race.  The  man  of  genius  obtains  his  rightful  place 
at  last,  even  if  it  takes  wearisome  years.  For  fifty  years  or 
more  Southey  has  been  as  much  underrated  as  Byron  has 
been  overrated.  These  two  extremes  of  view  have  been  a  liter- 
ary disease  which  is  not  easily  cured.  But  finally  character 
tells,  and  has  its  due  effect  upon  the  public.  Without  moral 
strength  and  dignity  in  poetical  work, — the  outgrowth  of  strength 
and  dignity  of  life, — no  work  can  be  permanent,  nor  appeal  to 
humanity  with  abiding  power. 

The  faults  of  Southey's  poetry  are  obvious  enough.  He  was 
unfortunate,  often,  in  his  choice  of  subjects,  which  have  little 
human  interest.  He  struck  a  new  and  original  vein  in  his  epics, 
and  they  are  full  of  picturesque  beauty,  have  many  thrilling  situ- 
ations, many  magnificent  thoughts,  and  strike  with  a  tender  and 
powerful  touch  many  chords  of  the  most  tragic  feeling;  and  yet 
they  lack  constructive  skill,  are  too  voluminous,  and  the  intro- 
duction of  occasional  peurilities  mars  their  symmetry.  Southey's 
work  is  all  unequal.  Far-reaching  thoughts  which  show  imag- 
inative grasp  and  true  poetic  passion,  original  and  exquisite 
forms  of  versification,  go  side  by  side  with  commonplace  ideas 
and  a  diction  differing  little  from  that  of  prose.  Southey  pleases 
most  by  his  descriptive  powers,  his  splendour  of  imagery,  his  skill 
in  narrative;  by  his  novel  and  musical  versification, — treating 
blank  verse  even  in  a  wholly  original  way, — and  by  the  sym- 
pathetic   tenderness   and    delicate   humour   he   displays   when 


ig2  Robert  Soutbeg. 

he  deals  with  pastoral  scenes  and  with  the  humble  joys  and 
sorrows  of  humble  men  and  women. 

His  poetry  was  inevitably  affected  by  his  ardent  historical 
spirit,  and  it  also  mirrored  the  aspects  of  his  age.  Indeed, 
many  of  his  laureate  poems  were  written  in  bondage  to  the 
conservative  and  narrower  phases  of  the  time.  We  condemn 
"  The  Vision  of  Judgment,"  and  justly  too,  but  some  of  Southey's 
leaureate  work  ranks  very  high  for  its  grandeur  and  range. 
The  best  of  his  odes — the  one  written  during  the  "  Negociations 
for  Peace  in  1814,"  was  inspired  not  only  by  his  hatred  of  Napo- 
leon, but  by  a  most  fervent  patriotism.  As  an  artistic  work  it 
possesses  the  finest  qualities — fire  and  enthusiasm  of  invective 
and  exhortation. 

But  Southey's  claim  to  immortality  rests  not  alone  upon  his 
best  and  most  characteristic  poems,  but  upon  certain  of  his 
prose  works.  The  "  History  of  Brazil "  lives  intact  and  in  the 
quotations  and  footnotes  of  others.  The  "  Life  of  Wesley  "  is 
a  masterpiece  in  English  biography.  Dining  once  with  the 
Duchess  of  Kent,  the  poet  was  pleased  when  the  Princess 
Victoria  thanked  him  for  the  pleasure  she  had  received  from 
reading  the  "  Life  of  Nelson."  Even  Byron  said  :  "  The  '  Life  of 
Nelson  '  is  beautiful."  Scattered  through  other  biographies,  like 
that  of  Cowper,  for  instance,  are  criticisms  of  insight  and  judg- 
ment— written  in  a  style,  like  all  of  Southey's  prose,  eloquent 
and  picturesque,  idiomatic  and  clear.  Then  Southey's  periodi- 
cal writings  show  a  mastery  of  his  materials,  a  skilful  adapta- 
tion of  them  to  the  "  different  bearings  of  the  subject,"  and  a 
freedom  from  that  "  miserable  flippancy  which  some  reviewers 
mistake  for  wit."  It  is  well  to  remember  that  Southey,  who 
did  so  much  to  make  successful  the  Quarterly  Review,  pro- 
tested against  Gifford's  unjust  treatment  of  new  writers,  and 
objected  to  the  tone  adopted  by  the  Review  on  matters  relating 
to  America.  But  he  has  himself  been  blamed  for  the  very 
abuses  he  sought  to  remove.  It  is  well,  also,  to  remember  that 
when  Macaulay  and  Jeffrey  said  so  many  malicious  things  of 
Southey,  they  were  Edinburgh  reviewers  and  he  belonged  to 
the  Quarterly. 

Southey  was  the  son  of  a  Bristol  merchant  whose  misfortunes 
embittered  and  discouraged  him.  From  his  mother  the  poet 
inherited  his  happy,  buoyant  temperament,  and  his  delicate 
sense  of  humour.  His  childhood  was  passed  under  the  guidance 
of  a  number  of  teachers,  whose  different  modes  of  instruction, 
instead  of  spoiling  him,  but  tended  to  satisfy  his  restless,  inquisi- 
tive intellect.  His  holidays,  passed  with  an  eccentric  aunt, 
were  miserable  except  when  she  took  him  to  the  theatre.  He 
had  no  companions,  and  he  was  restricted  in  every  natural  out- 
let for  his  boyish  fun.     The  child  was  sensitive  to  impressions. 


IRobert  Soutbeg.  153 

enthusiastic  and  ardent,  and  early  showed  that  love  for  poetry 
which  made  him  dwell  in  an  ideal  and  glorious  world.  He  was 
fortunate,  he  says,  in  finding  when  very  young  his  way  into  the 
right  path.  Tasso  and  Ariosto,  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  and  the 
Elizabethans  were  his  joy  even  at  eight  years  of  age.  It  is 
not,  therefore,  surprising  that  later  Southey  should  be  famous 
for  his  learning  and  his  wide  and  varied  reading  in  many 
literatures. 

The  poet's  days  at  Oxford  were  passed  amid  the  unparalleled 
enthusiasm  and  hope  born  of  the  important  events  then  occur- 
ring in  France.  The  Revolution,  which  had  such  an  influence 
upon  Wordsworth,  also  affected  him.     As  Wordsworth  wrote: 

11  J°y  if  was  then  to  be  alive  ;  but  to  be  young  was  very  Heaven." 

Before  Southey  became  a  High  Churchman  and  a  Conser- 
vative, he  passed  through  many  varied  and  exciting  phases  of 
thought,  which  had  a  marked  influence  both  upon  his  life  and 
on  his  art. 

To  this  period  belongs  the  composition  of  "  Wat  Tyler  "  and 
"Joan  of  Arc,"  and  the  wild  pantisocratic  scheme  of  emigration 
to  America.  But  Southey 's  common  sense  came  to  his  rescue 
and  he  went  to  Lisbon  instead.  Here  he  laid  the  foundation 
of  his  profound  knowledge  of  Portuguese  language  and  litera- 
ture, and  his  natural  love  for  a  literary  life  became  intensified. 
On  his  return  he  tried  to  get  interested  in  law,  and  then  medi- 
cine, but  could  not.  On  account  of  his  Unitarian  views  his  con- 
science decided  against  his  taking  orders,  and  his  refusal  dis- 
pleased his  friends,  who  soon  left  left  him  to  his  own  resources. 
Often  he  would  walk  the  London  streets  dinnerless  and  cold. 
His  sufferings,  instead  of  hardening  him,  made  him  always 
beautfully  tender  and  sympathetic  for  others.  That  in  his 
devotion  to  literature  he  attained  such  success  speaks  well  for  the 
quality  of  his  work.  He  was  fortunate  at  first  in  having  the 
friendship  of  an  old  school-fellow,  who  gave  him  a  small  annuity, 
then  after  a  while  some  official  appointments  helped  him  out,  but 
there  were  many  times  when  he  was  almost  discouraged  by  the 
odds  against  him.  His  dauntless  spirit  was  at  length  rewarded 
by  success,  but  it  only  came  after  years  of  toil,  and  was  only  re- 
tained by  maintaining  the  same  unwearied  industry.  To  his 
devotion  to  literature  he  sacrificed  worldly  advancement  as  well 
as  personal  comfort,  but  he  never  sacrificed  his  friends.  His 
home  first  opened  to  receive  his  mother,  whom  he  tenderly  cared 
for ;  a  younger  brother  was  also  under  his  watchful  care  ;  then  in 
turn  Coleridge  and  his  family  and  many  others  were  the  recipients 
of  his  delicate  and  gracious  hospitality.  In  the  very  beginning  of 
his  career  he  married  for  love,  and  he  kept  his  love  for  his  wife 


i54  IRobert  Soutbe^ 

and  hers  for  him  till  the  last  sad  close.  In  every  relationship  he 
showed  himself  to  be  the  noble,  tender,  and  true  man,  the  loyal 
friend,  the  unselfish  benefactor.  To  his  brave  life  a  few  words 
can  do  no  justice.  It  must  be  studied  in  detail  to  feel  the  influ- 
ence of  its  strength — its  compelling  charm. 

About  1804  Southey  settled  down  at  Greta  Hall,  near  Keswick, 
and  henceforth  his  name  will  ever  be  associated  with  the  beau- 
tiful Lake  Country.  Occasional  visits  to  London  varied  the 
monotony  of  his  life,  and  he  met  many  eminent  people  ;  but  as 
the  years  passed  he  became  more  and  more  wedded  to  his  home 
and  to  his  books.  Wordsworth  complained  to  Crabb  Robinson 
that  Southey  away  from  his  books  seemed  out  of  his  element. 

Southey 's  writings  would  make  up  a  good  library.  Forty-five 
independent  works,  one  hundred  and  twenty-six  articles  in  the 
Quarterly,  and  fifty-two  in  the  Annual  Review,  are  given  as  the 
product  of  his  pen  ;  besides,  there  are  innumerable  shorter  pieces 
and  poems  which  he  wrote.  Had  he  written  less,  his  work 
would  have  been  much  better.  But  Southey  had  to  be  a  bread- 
winner by  his  pen,  and  transform  his  fiery,  soaring  Pegasus  into 
a  steady-going  beast  of  burden. 

When  Henry  James  Pye  died  the  laurel  was  offered  to  Walter 
Scott,  but  he  declined.  When  Southey  was  proposed  for  the 
honour,  the  Prince  Regent  observed  that  inasmuch  as  he  had 
written  some  good  things  in  favour  of  the  Spaniards,  the  office 
should  be  given  him.  Southey  wrote  to  a  friend:  "  You  will 
admire  the  prince's  reason  !  " 

Southey's  political  principles  were  now  very  different  from 
what  they  had  been  in  the  old  Oxford  days.  He  was  now  a 
Conservative  and  a  High  Churchman.  He  had  changed  as 
Wordsworth  changed,  because  his  hopes  for  republicanism  had 
not  been  realised.  He  found  in  old,  ancient  customs  and  tradi- 
tion a  surer  resting-place ;  the  reaction  was,  however,  extreme, 
and  the  pendulum  swung  too  far  the  other  way. 

Because  of  his  somewhat  restricted  and  narrow  views,  so 
radically  opposed  to  those  of  his  ardent  youth,  many  insults 
were  heaped  upon  the  quiet  student  of  Keswick.  He  was 
called  renegade,  time-server,  and  turncoat.  Copies  of  "  Wat 
Tyler  "  were  sent  him — even  his  private  life  was  attacked. 
Sometimes  Southey,  by  his  dogmatism  and  critical  spirit,  made 
the  battle  wage  more  hotly.  When  he  attacked  what  he  called 
the  Satanic  School  he  got  the  worst  of  the  fight.  As  Austin 
and  Ralph  put  it  :  "  The  quarrel  with  Byron  was  between  the 
petulant  spleen  of  Byron  and  the  outraged  moral  feelings  of  the 
British  public,  speaking  through  Southey  ;  but  unfortunately 
Southey  laid  himself  open  to  much  of  the  sarcasm  which  by  its 
liveliness  and  force  still  excites  a  smile." 

It  is  always  to  be  regretted  that  in  his  anxiety  to  do  his  whole 


IRobert  Southed  155 

duty,  to  fulfil  all  the  obligations  of  his  office,  Southey  should 
have  written  "  The  Vision  of  Judgment."  The  error  was  also 
partly  due  to  a  wish  to  strike  out  a  new  path  in  a  somewhat 
dreary  field,  to  write  something  different  from  the  tiresome  odes 
of  his  predecessors,  to  be  original  at  the  expense  of  good  taste. 
The  poem  was  certainly  enough  to  stir  up  Byron's  ire.  Yet 
Byron  was  charmed  with  Southey,  when  they  met  once  at 
Holland  House.  "  He  is  the  best-looking  bard  1  have  seen  for 
some  time.  To  have  that  poet's  head  and  shoulders  I  would 
almost  have  written  his  Sapphics.  .  .  His  appearance  is  epic. 
His  talents  are  of  the  first  order.  .  .  His  prose  is  perfect.  .  . 
In  his  poetry  he  has  passages  equal  to  anything."  It  is  refresh- 
ing to  once  more  read  this  from  Byron,  to  remove  the  impres- 
sion of  the  preface  to  his  "  Vision  of  Judgment,"  and  the 
obnoxious  lines  in  "  Don  Juan." 

In  1820  Oxford  honoured  Southey  with  the  degree  of  LL.  D. 
Then  Sir  Robert  Peel  offered  him  a  baronetcy,  but  it  was  de- 
clined. A  generous  pension  soon  after  followed.  He  was 
elected  to  the  House,  but  declined  to  serve.  Many  other 
tempting  offers  were  made  to  him  to  emerge  from  his  retire- 
ment and  mingle  in  the  active  affairs  of  the  world,  but  he 
resisted  them  all. 

During  these  years,  when  so  many  unsought  honours  came  to 
Southey,  his  heart  was  overwhelmed  by  many  heavy  sorrows. 
We  read  of  his  anguish  when  one  of  his  daughters  was  ill  ;  how 
he  paced  the  garden  in  uncontrollable  grief.  From  the  loss  of 
several  children  of  whom  he  was  "  foolishly  fond,"  he  never 
fully  recovered.  The  crowning  sorrow  of  his  life  was  the  loss 
of  his  wife's  reason.  "1  have  been  parted  from  my  wife  by 
something  worse  than  death,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend.  "  Forty 
years  has  she  been  the  life  of  my  life,  and  I  have  left  her  this 
day  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  God,  who  has  visited  me  with  this 
affliction,  has  given  me  strength  to  bear  it.  Mine  is  a  strong- 
heart.  I  will  not  say  the  last  week  has  been  the  most  trying  of 
my  life,  but  the  heart  which  could  bear  it,  can  bear  anything." 

When  Edith  Southey  was  recovered  enough  to  be  cared  for 
at  home,  it  was  the  poet  who  assumed  that  care.  "  He  was  not 
one  to  shrink  from  an  obligation  and  devolve  upon  his  daugh- 
ters or  dependents  a  task  he  deemed  it  his  especial  duty  to 
undertake." 

His  untiring  devotion  made  her  last  days  certainly  less  un- 
happy. That  he  married  Caroline  Bowles  is  no  proof  that  lie 
had  forgotten  "  Edith  the  Beloved."  The  second  Mrs.  Southey 
had  a  melancholy  task — that  of  ministering  to  him  in  his  last 
days.  The  symptoms  of  change  in  him  were  slight  at  first,  but 
gradually  his  own  mind  gave  way.  The  record  of  his  last  days 
is  too  painful  to  even  remember. 


156  IRobert  Soutbeg. 

When  the  end  came  they  buried  him  in  the  quiet  churchyard 
at  Crosthwaite,  in  the  vale  of  Keswick,  "within  the  shadow  of 
the  home  he  loved  so  well."  And  on  his  tomb  is  engraved 
Wordsworth's  beautiful  tribute. 

As  this  inscription  is  somewhat  different  from  that  published 
among  the  other  poems  of  Wordsworth,  I  give  it  as  it  was 
copied  for  me  by  a  friend  who  was  visiting  the  places  forever 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  both  Southey  and  Wordsworth  : 

Ye  vale  and  hills,  whose  beauty  hither  drew 

The  poet's  steps  and  fixed  him  here,  on  you 

His  eyes  have  closed !  and  ye,  loved  books,  no  more 

Shall  Southey  feed  upon  your  precious  lore, 

To  works  that  ne'er  shall  forfeit  their  renown 

Adding  immortal  labours  of  his  own  — 

Whether  he  traced  historic  truth,  with  zeal 

For  the  state's  guidance  or  the  Church's  weal, 

Or  fancy,  disciplined  by  studious  art, 

Informed  his  pen,  cr  wisdom  of  the  heart, 

Or  judgments  sanctioned  in  the  patriot's  mind 

By  reverence  for  the  rights  of  all  mankind. 

Wide  were  his  aims,  yet  in  no  human  breast 

Could  private  feelings  find  a  holier  nest. 

His  joys,  his  griefs,  have  vanished  like  a  cloud 

From  Skiddaw's  top  ;  but  he  to  Heaven  was  vowed 

Through  a  life  long  and  pure  ;  and  Christian  faith 

Calmed  in  his  soul  the  fear  of  change  and  death. 

There  is  a  fine  bust  to  Southey 's  memory  in  the  Poet's  Corner 
of  the  great  Abbey,  and  seldom  has  England  honoured  a 
worthier  or  a  greater  man. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SOUTHEY. 


SELECTION  FROM  CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE. 

{For  the  Commencement  of  the  Year  1814.) 

In  happy  hour  doth  he  receive 
The  Laurel,  weed  of  famous  bards  of  yore, 
Which  Dryclen  and  diviner  Spenser  wore, 
In  happy  hour,  and  well  may  he  rejoice, 

Whose  earliest  task  must  be 
To  raise  the  exultant  hymn  for  victory, 
And  join  a  nation's  joy  with  harps  and  voice, 
Pouring  the  strain  of  triumph  on  the  wind, 
Glory  to  God,  his  song,  Deliverance  for  mankind  ! 

Wake,  lute  and  harp  !  my  soul,  take  up  the  strain  ! 
Glory  to  God  !     Deliverance  for  mankind  ! 
Joy— for  all  nations,  joy  !     But  most  for  thee, 
Who  hast  so  nobly  filled  thy  part  assigned, 
O  England  !  O  my  glorious  native  land  ! 

For  thou  in  evil  days  didst  stand 
Against  leagued  Europe  all  in  arms  arrayed, 

Single  and  undismayed, 
Thy  hope  in  Heaven  and  in  thine  own  right  hand. 
Now  are  thy  virtuous  efforts  overpaid  ; 
Thy  generous  counsels  now  their  guerdon  find  ; 
Glory  to  God  !     Deliverance  for  mankind  ! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ODE,  WRITTEN  DURING  THE 
NEGOCIATIONS  WITH  BUONAPARTE,  IN  JANU- 
ARY, 1814. 

Who  counsels  peace  at  this  momentous  hour, 
Where  God  hath  given  deliverance  to  the  oppress'd, 

And  to  the  injured  power  ? 
Who  counsels  peace,  when  vengeance  like  a  flood 
Rolls  on,  no  longer  now  to  be  repress'd ; 

When  innocent  blood 

*57 


i5 8  IRobert  Soutbeg. 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  world  cries  out 
For  justice  upon  one  accursed  head  ; 
When  Freedom  hath  her  holy  banner  spread 
Over  all  nations,  now  in  one  just  cause 
United  ;  when  with  one  sublime  accord 
Europe  throws  off  the  yoke  abhorr'd, 
And  Loyalty  and  Faith  and  Ancient  Laws 
Follow  the  avenging  sword. 

Woe,  woe  to  England  !  woe  and  endless  shame, 

If  this  heroic  land, 
False  to  her  feelings  and  unspotted  fame, 
Hold  out  the  olive  to  the  Tyrant's  hand ! 
Woe  to  the  world,  if  Buonaparte's  throne 

Be  suffer'd  still  to  stand  ! 
For  by  what  names  shall  right  and  wrong  be  known, 
What  new  and  courtly  phrases  must  we  feign 
For  falsehood,  murder,  and  all  monstrous  crimes, 
If  that  perfidious  Corsican  maintain 

Still  his  detested  reign, 
And  France,  who  yearns  even  now  to  break  her  chain, 
Beneath  his  iron  rule  be  left  to  groan  ? 

No  !  by  the  innumerable  dead 
Whose  blood  hath  for  his  lust  and  power  been  shed, 
Death  only  can  for  his  foul  deeds  atone ; 
That  peace  which  Death  and  Judgment  can  bestow, 
That  peace  be  Buonaparte's,  that  alone ! 

O  France !  beneath  this  fierce  Barbarian's  sway 
Disgraced  thou  art  to  all  succeeding  times ; 
Rapine,  and  blood,  and  fire  have  mark'd  thy  way, 

All  loathsome,  all  unutterable  crimes. 
A  curse  is  on  thee,  France !  from  far  and  wide 
It  hath  gone  up  to  Heaven  ;  all  lands  have  cried 

For  vengeance  upon  thy  detested  head; 
All  nations  curse  thee,  France  !  wheresoe'er 
In  peace  or  war  thy  banner  hath  been  spread, 
All  forms  of  human  woe  have  follow'd  there : 

The  living  and  the  dead 
Cry  out  alike  against  thee  !     They  who  bear, 
Crouching  beneath  its  weight,  thine  iron  yoke, 
Join  in  the  bitterness  of  secret  prayer 
The  voice  of  that  innumerable  throng 
Whose  slaughtered  spirits  day  and  night  invoke 
The  everlasting  Judge  of  right  and  wrong, 
How  long,  O  Lord  !     Holy  and  just,  how  long ! 


IRobert  5outbe£.  159 

One  man  hath  been  for  ten  long  wretched  years 
The  cause  of  all  this  blood  and  all  these  tears  ; 
One  man  in  this  most  avveful  point  of  time 
Draws  on  thy  danger,  as  he  caused  thy  crime. 

Wait  not  too  long  the  event, 
For  now  whole  Europe  comes  against  thee  bent ; 
His  wiles  and  their  own  strength  the  nations  know  ; 
Wise  from  past  wrongs,  on  future  peace  intent, 
The  people  and  the  princes,  with  one  mind, 
From  all  parts  move  against  the  general  foe : 
One  act  of  justice,  one  atoning  blow, 

One  execrable  head  laid  low, 
Even  yet,  O  France  !  averts  thy  punishment : 
Open  thine  eyes  !  too  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ; 
Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind  ! 

By  those  horrors  which  the  night 

Witness'd,  when  the  torches'  light 

To  the  assembled  murderers  show'd 

Where  the  blood  of  Conde  flow'd  ; 

By  thy  murder'd  Pichegru's  fame  ; 

By  murder'd  Wright,  an  English  name  ; 

By  murder'd  Palm's  atrocious  doom  ; 

By  murder'd  Hofer's  martyrdom  ; 

Oh !  by  the  virtuous  blood  thus  vilely  spilt, 

The  villain's  own  peculiar  private  guilt, 

Open  thine  eyes  !  too  long  hast  thou  been  blind ! 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself  and  for  mankind  ! 

SELECTIONS  FROM  FUNERAL  SONG. 

FOR  THE   PRINCESS   CHARLOTTE  OF   WALES. 

In  its  summer  pride  arrayed 
Low  our  Tree  of  Hope  is  laid, 
Low  it  lies ;  in  evil  hour, 
Visiting  the  bridal  bower, 
Death  hath  levell'd  root  and  flower. 
Windsor,  in  thy  sacred  shade, 
(That  the  end  of  pomp  and  power!) 
Have  the  rites  of  death  been  paid  : 
Windsor,  in  thy  sacred  shade 
Is  the  flower  of  Brunswick  laid ! 

Henry,  thou  of  sainted  worth, 
Thou,  to  whom  thy  Windsor  gave 


160  IRobert  Soutbe^. 

Nativity  and  name,  and  grave  ; 

Thou  art  in  this  hallowed  earth 

Cradled  for  the  immortal  birth  ! 

Heavily  upon  his  head 

Ancestral  crimes  were  visited  : 

He,  in  spirit  like  a  child, 

Meek  of  heart  and  undefiled, 

Patiently  his  crown  resign 'd, 

And  fixed  on  Heaven  his  heavenly  mind, 

Blessing  while  he  kiss'd  the  rod 

His  Redeemer  and  his  God. 

Now  may  he  in  realms  of  bliss 

Greet  a  soul  as  pure  as  his. 


Thou,  Elizabeth,  art  here ; 
Thou  to  whom  all  griefs  were  known ; 
Who  wert  placed  upon  the  bier 
In  happier  hour  than  on  the  throne. 
Fatal  daughter,  fatal  mother, 
Rais'd  to  that  ill-omen'd  station, 
Father,  uncle,  sons,  and  brother, 
Mourn'd  in  blood  her  elevation  ! 
Woodville  in  the  realms  of  bliss, 
To  thine  offspring  thou  may'st  say, 
Early  death  is  happiness ; 
And  favour'd  in  their  lot  are  they 
Who  are  not  left  to  learn  below 
That  length  of  life  is  length  of  woe. 
Lightly  let  this  ground  be  prest ; 
A  broken  heart  is  here  at  rest. 


Henry,  too,  hath  here  his  part ; 

At  the  gentle  Seymour's  side, 

With  his  best  beloved  bride, 

Cold  and  quiet  here  are  laid 

The  ashes  of  that  fiery  heart. 

Not  with  his  tyrannic  spirit 

Shall  our  Charlotte's  soul  inherit ; 

No,  by  Fisher's  hoary  head, — 

By  More,  the  learned  and  the  good, — 

By  Katherine's  wrongs  and  Boleyn's  blood,- 

By  the  life  so  basely  shed 

Of  the  pride  of  Norfolk's  line, 

By  the  axe  so  often  red, 

By  the  fire  with  martyrs  fed 


Robert  Soutbeg.  161 

Hateful  Henry,  not  with  thee 

May  her  happy  spirit  be ! 

And  here  lies  one  whose  tragic  name 

A  reverential  thought  may  claim  ; 

That  murder'd  monarch,  whom  the  grave, 

Revealing  its  long  secret,  gave 

Again  to  sight,  that  we  might  spy 

His  comely  face  and  waking  eye ! 

There,  thrice  fifty  years,  it  lay, 

Exempt  from  natural  decay, 

Enclosed  and  bright,  as  if  to  say, 

A  plague,  of  bloodier,  baser  birth, 

Than  that  beneath  whose  rage  he  bled, 

Was  loose  upon  our  guilty  earth  ; 

Such  awful  warning  from  the  dead, 

Was  given  from  that  portentous  eye ; 

Then  it  closed  eternally. 

Ye  whose  relics  rest  around, 

Tenants  of  this  funeral  ground  ; 

Even  in  your  immortal  spheres, 

What  fresh  yearnings  will  ye  feel, 

When  this  earthly  guest  appears ! 

As  she  leaves  in  grief  and  tears ; 

But  to  you  will  she  reveal 

Tidings  of  old  England's  weal; 

Of  a  righteous  war  pursued, 

Long,  through  evil  and  through  good, 

With  unshaken  fortitude ; 

Of  peace  in  battle  twice  achieved ; 

Of  her  fiercest  foe  subdued, 

And  Europe  from  the  yoke  reliev'd, 

Upon  that  Brabantine  plain  ! 

Such  the  proud,  the  virtuous  story, 

Such  the  great,  the  endless  glory 

Of  her  father's  splendid  reign  ! 

He  who  wore  the  sable  mail, 

Might  at  this  heroic  tale, 

Wish  himself  on  earth  again. 

One  who  reverently  for  thee, 
Rais'd  the  strain  of  bridal  verse, 
Flower  of  Brunswick  !  mournfully 
Lays  a  garland  on  thy  herse. 


162  IRobert  Soutbeg* 

SELECTIONS   FROM   ODE   WRITTEN    DURING   THE 
WAR  WITH  AMERICA,  1814. 

When  shall  the  Island  Queen  of  Ocean  lay 

The  thunderbolt  aside, 
And,  twining  olives  with  her  laurel  crown, 

Rest  in  the  bower  of  peace  ? 

Not  long  may  this  unnatural  strife  endure 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  deep  ; 
Not  long  may  men,  with  vain  ambition  drunk, 

And  insolent  in  wrong, 
Afflict  with  their  misrule  the  indignant  land 

Where  Washington  hath  left 
His  awful  memory 

A  light  for  after-times  ! 
Vile  instruments  of  fallen  Tyranny 
In  their  own  annals,  by  their  countrymen, 
For  lasting  shame  shall  they  be  written  down. 
Soon  may  the  better  genius  there  prevail! 
Then  will  the  Island  Queen  of  Ocean  lay 

The  thunderbolt  aside, 
And,  twining  olives  with  her  laurel  crown, 

Rest  in  the  bower  of  peace. 

Queen  of  the  Seas  !  enlarge  thyself ; 

Send  thou  thy  swarms  abroad  ! 

For  in  the  years  to  come, 

Though  centuries  or  millenniums  intervene, 

Where'er  thy  progeny, 
Thy  language,  and  thy  spirit  shall  be  found, — 

If  on  Ontario's  shores, 
Or  late-explored  Missouri's  pastures  wide, 
Or  in  that  Austral  world  long  sought, 
The  many-isled  Pacific,  yea,  where  waves, 
Now  breaking  over  coral  reefs,  affright 

The  venturous  mariner, 
When  islands  shall  have  grown,  and  cities  risen 

In  cocoa  groves  embowered, 

Where'er  thy  language  lives, 
By  whatsoever  name  the  land  be  called, 
That  land  is  English  still,  and  there 
Thy  influential  spirit  dwells  and  reigns. 
Thrones  fall  and  dynasties  are  changed, 

Empires  decay  and  sink 


IRobert  Soutbeg*  *6?> 

Beneath  their  own  unwieldy  weight ; 

Dominion  passeth  like  a  cloud  away  : 

The  imperishable  mind 
Survives  all  meaner  things. 


When  shall  the  dove  go  forth  ?  oh  when 
Shall  Peace  return  among  the  sons  of  men  ? 
Hasten,  benignant  Heaven,  the  blessed  day  ! 

Justice  must  go  before, 
And  Retribution  must  make  plain  the  way; 

Force  must  be  crushed  by  force, 
The  power  of  Evil  by  the  power  of  Good, 
Ere  Order  bless  the  suffering  world  once  more, 

Or  Peace  return  again. 
Hold,  then,  right  on  in  your  auspicious  course, 
Ye  princes,  and  ye  people  !  hold  right  on  ! 

Your  task  not  yet  is  done  ; 
Pursue  the  blow, — ye  know  your  foe, — 
Complete  the  happy  work  so  well  begun. 
Hold  on,  and  be  your  aim,  with  all  your  strength, 
Loudly  proclaimed  and  steadily  pursued  ; 

So  shall  this  fatal  Tyranny  at  length 
Before  the  arms  of  Freedom  fall  subdued. 
Then,  when  the  waters  of  the  flood  abate, 
The  dove  her  resting-place  secure  may  find  ; 
And  France,  restored  and  shaking  off  her  chain, 
Shall  join  the  avengers  in  the  joyful  strain, 
Glory  to  God  !     Deliverance  for  mankind  ! 


THE  SPANISH  ARMADA. 

Clear  shone  the  morn,  the  gale  was  fair, 
When  from  Coruna's  crowded  port, 
With  many  a  cheerful  shout  and  loud  acclaim, 
The  huge  Armada  passed. 

To  England's  shores  their  streamers  point, 

To  England's  shores  their  sails  are  spread  ; 

They  go  to  triumph  o'er  the  sea-girt  land, 

And  Rome  hath  blest  their  arms, 

Along  the  ocean's  echoing  verge, 
Along  the  mountain  range  of  rocks, 
The  clustering  multitudes  behold  their  pomp, 
And  raise  the  votive  prayer. 


i<H  IRobert  Soutbeg. 

Commingling  with  the  ocean's  roar, 
Ceaseless  and  hoarse  their  murmurs  rise  ; 
And  soon  they  trust  to  see  the  winged  bark 
That  bears  good  tidings  home. 

The  watch-tower  now  in  distance  sinks ; 
And  now  Galicia's  mountain  rocks 
Faint  as  the  far-off  clouds  of  evening  lie, 
And  now  they  fade  away. 

Each  like  some  moving  citadel, 
On  through  the  wave's  they  sail  sublime; 
And  now  the  Spaniards  see  the  silvery  cliffs, 
Behold  the  sea-girt  land. 

O  fools  !  to  think  that  ever  foe 
Should  triumph  o'er  that  sea-girt  land ! 
O  fools  !  to  think  that  ever  Britain's  sons 
Should  wear  the  stranger's  yoke  ! 

For  not  in  vain  hath  Nature  reared 
Around  her  coasts  those  silvery  cliffs  ; 
For  not  in  vain  old  Ocean  spreads  his  waves 
To  guard  his  favourite  isle. 

On  come  her  gallant  mariners  ! 
What  now  avail  Rome's  boasted  charms  ? 
Where  are  the  Spaniard's  vaunts  of  eagle  wrath, 
His  hopes  of  conquest  now  ? 

And  hark  !  the  angry  winds  arise, 
Old  Ocean  heaves  his  angry  waves; 
The  winds  and  waves  against  the  invaders  fight, 
To  guard  the  sea-girt  land. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

Man  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage 

As  through  the  world  he  wends ; 
On  every  stage  from  youth  to  age 

Still  discontent  attends  ; 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 


IRobeit  Soutbeg*  165 

To  school  the  little  exile  goes, 

Torn  from  his  mother's  arms, 
What  then  shall  soothe  his  earliest  woes, 

When  novelty  hath  lost  its  charms  ? 
Condemn'd  to  suffer  through  the  day 
Restraints  which  no  rewards  repay, 

And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lengthens  as  she  counts  the  hours 

Before  his  wish'd  return. 

From  hard  control  and  tyrant  rules, 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools, 

In  thought  he  loves  to  roam, 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye 
While  he  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  comforts  of  his  home. 

Youth  comes ;  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 

Torment  the  restless  mind  ; 
Where  shall  the  tired  and  harass'd  heart 

Its  consolation  find  ? 
Then  is  not  Youth  as  Fancy  tells, 

Life's  summer  prime  of  joy? 
Ah  no  !  for  hopes  too  long  delay 'd 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betray'd, 

Its  fabled  bliss  destroy ; 
And  youth  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  careless  days  of  Infancy. 

Maturer  Manhood  now  arrives, 

And  other  thoughts  come  on, 
But  with  the  baseless  hopes  of  Youth 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone; 
Cold  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed, 

The  dull  realities  of  truth  ; 
Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye, 
Remembering  with  an  envious  sigh 

The  happy  dreams  of  youth. 

So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage 
Of  this  our  mortal  pilgrimage, 

With  feeble  steps  and  slow ; 
New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 
And  old  Experience  learns  too  late 

That  all  is  vanity  below. 


166  IRobert  Soutbeg. 

Life's  vain  delusions  are  gone  by  ; 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er; 
Yet  Age  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 

Westbury,  1798. 


RODERICK  IN  BATTLE. 
(From  "  Roderick,  The  Last  of  The  Goths .") 

With  that  he  fell  upon  the  old  man's  neck  ; 

Then  vaulted  in  the  saddle,  gave  the  reins, 

And  soon  rejoined  the  host.     On,  comrades,  on  ! 

Victory  and  Vengeance  !  he  exclaimed,  and  took 

The  lead  on  that  good  charger,  he  alone 

Horsed  for  the  onset.     They,  with  one  consent, 

Gave  all  their  voices  to  the  inspiring  cry, 

Victory  and  Vengeance  !  and  the  hills  and  rocks 

Caught  the  prophetic  shout  and  rolled  it  round. 

Count  Pedro's  people  heard  amid  the  heat 

Of  battle,  and  returned  the  glad  acclaim. 

The  astonished  Mussulmans,  on  all  sides  charged, 

Heard  that  tremendous  cry;  yet  manfully 

They  stood,  and  everywhere,  with  gallant  front, 

Opposed  in  fair  array  the  shock  of  war. 

Desperately  they  fought,  like  men  expert  in  arms, 

And  knowing  that  no  safety  could  be  found 

Save  from  their  own  right  hands.     No  former  day 

Of  all  his  long  career  had  seen  their  chief 

Approved  so  well  ;  nor  had  Witiza's  sons 

Ever  before  this  hour  achieved  in  fight 

Such  feats  of  resolute  valour.     Sisibert 

Beheld  Pelayo  in  the  field  afoot, 

And  twice  essayed  beneath  his  horse's  feet 

To  thrust  him  down.     Twice  did  the  prince  evade 

The  shock,  and  twice  upon  his  shield  received 

The  fratricidal  sword.     Tempt  me  no  more, 

Son  of  Witiza,  cried  the  indignant  chief, 

Lest  I  forget  what  mother  gave  thee  birth  ! 

Go  meet  thy  death  from  any  hand  but  mine  ! 

He  said,  and  turned  aside.     Fitliest  from  me ! 

Exclaimed  a  dreadful  voice,  as  through  the  throng 

Orelio  forced  his  way  :  fitliest  from  me 

Receive  the  rightful  death  too  long  withheld  ! 

'Tis  Roderick  strikes  the  blow  !     And  as  he  spake. 


M  YET   AGE  REMEMBERS  WITH  A  SIGH 
THE  DAYS  THAT   ARE   NO   MORE." — Page  166. 


IRobert  Soutbeg,  167 

Upon  the  traitor's  shoulder  fierce  he  drove 
The  weapon,  well  bestowed.     He  in  the  seat 
Tottered  and  fell.     The  avenger  hastened  on 
In  search  of  Ebba  ;  and  in  the  heat  of  fight 
Rejoicing,  and  forgetful  of  all  else, 
Set  up  his  cry,  as  he  was  wont  in  youth  — 
Roderick  the  Goth  !— his  war-cry  known  so  well. 

THE  CURSE. 

(From  "  Kehama"') 

I  CHARM  thy  life, 

From  weapons  of  strife, 

From  stone  and  from  wood, 

From  fire  and  from  flood, 

From  the  serpent's  tooth, 

And  the  beast  of  blood. 

From  sickness  I  charm  thee, 

And  time  shall  not  harm  thee  ; 

But  earth,  which  is  mine, 

Its  fruits  shall  deny  thee  ; 

And  water  shall  bear  me, 

And  know  thee  and  flee  thee  ; 

And  the  winds  shall  not  touch  thee 

When  they  pass  by  thee, 
And  the  dews  shall  not  wet  thee 

When  they  fall  nigh  thee. 
And  thou  shalt  seek  death, 
To  release  thee  in  vain  ; 
Thou  shalt  live  in  thy  pain, 
While  Kehama  shall  reign, 
With  a  fire  in  thy  heart, 
And  a  fire  in  thy  brain. 
And  sleep  shall  obey  me, 
And  visit  thee  never, 
And  the  curse  shall  be  on  thee 

Forever  and  ever. 

THE  SWERGA. 

(From  "  The  Curse  of  ffe/iama.") 

Then  in  the  ship  of  heaven,  Ereenia  laid 

The  waking,  wondering  maid  : 
The  ship  of  Heaven,  instinct  with  thought  displayed 
Its  living  sail,  and  glides  along  the  sky. 

On  either  side,  in  wavy  tide, 


l68  IRobett  Soutbeg. 

The  clouds  of  morn  along  its  path  divide  ; 

The  winds,  that  swept  in  wild  career  on  high, 

Before  its  presence  check  their  charmed  force  : 

The  winds,  that  loitering  lagged  along  their  course, 

Around  the  living  bark  enamoured  play, 

Swell  underneath  the  sail,  and  sing  before  its  way. 

The  bark,  in  shape,  was  like  the  furrowed  shell 
Wherein  the  sea-nymphs  to  their  parent-king, 
On  festal  day,  their  duteous  offerings  bring. 
Its  hue  ? — Go,  watch  the  last  green  light 
Ere  evening  yields  the  western  sky  to  night ; 
Or  fix  upon  the  sun  thy  strenuous  sight 
Till  thou  hast  reached  its  orb  of  chrysolite. 
The  sail,  from  end  to  end  displayed, 
Bent,  like  a  rainbow,  o'er  the  maid. 

An  angel's  head,  with  visual  eye, 
Through  trackless  space,  directs  its  chosen  way  ; 

Nor  aid  of  wing  nor  foot  nor  fin 
Requires  to  voyage  o'er  the  obedient  sky. 
Smooth  as  the  swan,  when  not  a  breeze  at  even 

Disturbs  the  surface  of  the  silver  stream, 
Through  air  and  sunshine  sails  the  ship  of  Heaven 
Recumbent  there  the  maiden  glides  along 

On  her  aerial  way  ; 
How  swift  she  feels  not,  though  the  swiftest  wind 

Had  flagged  in  flight  behind. 
Motionless  as  a  sleeping  babe  she  lay, 

And  all  serene  in  mind, 
Feeling  no  fear  ;  for  that  ethereal  air 
With  such  new  life  and  joyance  filled  her  heart, 

Fear  could  not  enter  there  : 
For  sure  she  deemed  her  mortal  part  was  o'er, 
And  she  was  sailing  to  the  heavenly  shore, 
And  that  angelic  form,  who  moved  beside, 
Was  some  good  spirit  sent  to  be  her  guide. 


Through  air  and  sunshine  sails  the  ship  of  Heaven 

Far,  far  beneath  them  lies 
The  gross  and  heavy  atmosphere  of  earth ; 

And,  with  the  Swerga  gales, 

The  maid  of  mortal  birth 
At  every  breath  a  new  delight  inhales. 
And  now  towards  its  port  the  ship  of  Heaven, 
Swift  as  a  falling  meteor,  shapes  its  flight, 


"recumbent    there    the    maiden    glides   along 

ON    HER    AERIAL   WAY." — Page  168. 


TRobert  Soutbeg.  l69 

Yet  gently  as  the  dews  of  night  that  gem, 
And  do  not  bend  the  harebell's  slenderest  stem. 
"  Daughter  of  Earth  !  "  Ereenia  cried,  "  alight ; 
This  is  thy  place  of  rest,  the  Swerga,  this; 
Lo,  here  my  bovver  of  bliss  ! " 


FROM  KEHAMA. 

O  FORCE  of  faith  !     O  strength  of  virtuous  will ! 

Behold  him  in  his  endless  martyrdom, 
Triumphant  still ! 
The  curse  still  burning  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

And  yet  doth  he  remain 
Patient  the  while,  and  tranquil,  and  content ! 
The  pious  soul  hath  framed  unto  itself 
A  second  nature,  to  exist  in  pain 
As  in  its  own  allotted  element. 

Such  strength  the  will  reveal'd  had  given 

This  holy  pair,  such  influxes  of  grace, 

That  to  their  solitary  resting  place 

They  brought  the  peace  of  Heaven. 

Yea,  all  around  was  hallow'd  !     Danger,  fear, 

Nor  thought  of  evil  ever  entered  here. 

A  charm  was  on  the  leopard  when  he  came 

Within  the  circle  of  that  mystic  glade ; 

Submiss  he  crouch'd  before  the  heavenly  maid, 

And  offer'd  to  her  touch  his  speckled  side  : 

Or  with  arch'd  back  erect,  and  bending  head, 

And  eyes  half-closed  for  pleasure,  would  he  stand 

Courting  the  pressure  of  her  gentle  hand. 


FROM  KEHAMA. 

They  sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  die : 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 

Love  is  indestructible  : 

Its  holy  flame  forever  burneth  ; 

From  Heaven  it  came,  to  Heaven  returneth. 

Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  opprest ; 
It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 


J  7°  IRobert  Soutbeg. 

And  hatli  in  Heaven  its  perfect  rest. 
It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 
But  the  harvest-time  of  Love  is  there. 

Oh !  when  a  mother  meets  on  high 

The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy, 

Hath  she  not  then  for  pains  and  fears, 
The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night, 
For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears, 

An  over-payment  of  delight? 

(Canto  X.) 

-Thou  hast  been  called,  O  Sleep !  the  friend 

of  woe  ; 
But  His  the  happy  that  have  called  thee  so. 

(Canto  XV.) 

FROM  THALABA. 

How  beautiful  is  night ! 
A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air ; 
No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor  stain 
Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven  : 
In  full-orbed  glory,  yonder  moon  divine 
Rolls  through  the  dark  blue  depths. 
Beneath  her  steady  ray 
The  desert  circle  spreads, 
Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  with  the  sky. 

How  beautiful  is  night ! 


FROM   MADOC. 

Though  in  blue  ocean  seen 

Blue,  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue. 


THE  SOURCE  OF  THE  GANGES. 

None  hath  seen  its  secret  fountain  ; 

But  on  the  top  of  Meru  mountain, 

Which  rises  o'er  the  hills  of  earth, 

In  light  and  clouds,  it  hath  its  mortal  birth. 

Earth  seems  that  pinnacle  to  rear 

Sublime  above  this  worldly  sphere. 

Its  cradle,  and  its  altar,  and  its  throne ; 


IRobcrt  Soutbeg.  J71 

And  there  the  new-born  river  lies 
Outspread  beneath  its  native  skies, 
As  if  it  there  would  love  to  dwell 
Alone  and  unapproachable. 

THE   SEA. 

How  beautiful  beneath  the  bright  blue  sky 
The  billows  heave  !  one  glowing"  green  expanse, 
Save  where  along  the  bending  line  of  shore 
Such  hue  is  thrown  as  when  the  peacock's  neck 
Assumes  its  proudest  tint  of  amethyst 
Embraced  in  emerald  glory. 

IMPULSE. 

And  happy  they  who  thus  in  faith  obey 
Their  better  nature:  err  sometimes  they  may, 
And  some  sad  thoughts  lie  heavy  in  the  breast ; 
Such  as,  by  Hope  deceived,  are  left  behind  ; 
But  like  a  shadow  these  will  pass  away 
From  the  pure  sunshine  of  the  peaceful  mind. 

FREEDOM   OF   THE    WILL. 

Idly,  rajah,  dost  thou  reason  thus 
Of  destiny  !  for  though  all  other  things 
Were  subject  to  the  starry  influences, 
And  bowed  submissive  to  thy  tyranny, 

The  virtuous  heart  and  resolute  mind  are  free. 
Thus,  in  their  wisdom  did  the  gods  decree, 
When  they  created  man.     Let  come  what  will, 
This  is  our  rock  of  strength  in  every  ill. 

THE   EBB-TIDE. 

Slowly  the  flowing  tide 

Came  in,  old  Avon  !'    Scarcely  did  mine  eyes, 
As  watchfully  I  roamed  thy  greenwood  side, 
Perceive  its  gentle  rise. 

With  many  a  stroke  and  strong 
The  labouring  boatmen  upward  plied  their  oars; 
Yet  little  way  they  made,  though  labouring  long 
Between  thy  winding  shores. 


172  IRobert  Soutbe^. 

Now  down  thine  ebbing  tide 
The  unlaboured  boat  falls  rapidly  along ; 
The  solitary  helmsman  sits  to  guide, 
And  sings  an  idle  song. 

Now  o'er  the  rocks  that  lay 
So  silent  late  the  shallow  current  roars  ; 
Fast  flow  thy  waters  on  their  seaward  way 
Through  wider-spreading  shores. 

Avon,  I  gaze  and  know 
The  lesson  emblemed  in  thy  varying  way ; 
It  speaks  of  human  joys  that  rise  so  slow, 
So  rapidly  decay. 

Kingdoms  which  long  have  stood 
And  slow  to  strength  and  power  attained  at  last, 
Thus  from  the  summit  of  high  fortune's  flood, 
They  ebb  to  ruin  fast. 

Thus  like  thy  flow  appears 
Time's  tardy  course  to  manhood's  envied  stage. 
Alas!  how  hurryingly  the  ebbing  years 
Then  hasten  to  old  age. 


THE   DEAD   FRIEND. 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Descend  to  contemplate 
The  form  that  once  was  dear : 
The  spirit  is  not  there 
Which  kindled  that  dead  eye, 
Which  throbbed  in  that  cold  heart, 
Which  in  that  motionless  hand 
Hath  met  thy  friendly  grasp  ; 

The  spirit  is  not  there ! 
It  is  but  lifeless,  perishable  flesh 
That  moulders  in  the  grave  ; 
Earth,  air,  and  water's  ministering  particles 
Now  to  the  elements 
Resolved,  their  uses  done. 
Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ; 
The  spirit  is  not  there. 


IRobert  Soutbeg.  173 

Often  together  have  we  talked  of  death ; 
How  sweet  it  were  to  see 
All  doubtful  things  made  clear; 
How  sweet  it  were,  with  powers 
Such  as  the  Cherubim, 
To  view  the  depth  of  heaven  ! 
O  Edmund  !  thou  hast  first  begun  the  travel  of 
Eternity  ! 
I  !ook  upon  the  stars, 
And  think  that  thou  art  there, 
Unfettered  as  the  thought  that  follows  thee. 

And  we  have  often  said  how  sweet  it  were, 
With  unseen  ministry  of  angel  power, 

To  watch  the  friends  we  loved. 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err  ! 
Sure  I  have  felt  thy  presence  !     Thou  hast  given 

A  birth  to  holy  thought, 
Hast  kept  me  from  the  world  unstained  and  pure. 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err! 

Our  best  affections  here 
They  are  not  like  the  toys  of  infancy  ; 
The  soul  outgrows  them  not ; 
We  do  not  cast  them  off  : 
Oh,  if  it  could  be  so, 
It  were  indeed  a  dreadful  thing  to  die ! 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved  ; 

But  in  the  lonely  hour, 

But  in  the  evening  walk, 
Think  that  he  companies  thy  solitude; 

Think  that  he  holds  with  thee 

Mysterious  intercourse  ; 
And,  though  remembrance  wake  a  tear, 

There  will  be  joy  in  grief. 


INSCRIPTION. 

FOR  A  CAVERN  THAT  OVERLOOKS  THE  RIVER  AVON. 

Enter  this  cavern,  stranger  !     Here,  awhile 
Respiring  from  the  long  and  steep  ascent, 
Thou  mayst  be  glad  of  rest,  and  haply  too 
Of  shade,  if  from  the  summer's  westering  sun 
Sheltered  beneath  this  beetling  vault  of  rock. 


i74  IRobert  5outbe£. 

Round  the  rude  portal  clasping  its  rough  arms, 
The  antique  ivy  spreads  a  canopy, 
From  whose  gray  blossoms  the  wild  bees  collect 
In  autumn  their  last  store.     The  muses  love 
This  spot  ;  believe  a  poet  who  hath  felt 
Their  visitation  here.     The  tide  below, 
Rising  or  refluent,  scarcely  sends  its  sound 
Of  waters  up ;  and  from  the  heights  beyond, 
Where  the  high-hanging  forest  waves  and  sways, 
Varying  before  the  wind  its  verdant  hues, 
The  voice  is  music  here.     Here  thou  mayst  feel 
How  good,  how  lovely,  Nature  !     And  when,  hence 
Returning  to  the  city's  crowded  streets, 
Thy  sickening  eye  at  every  step  revolts 
From  scenes  of  vice  and  wretchedness,  reflect 
That  man  creates  the  evil  he  endures. 


FROM   THE   ROSE. 

Nay,  Edith  !  spare  the  rose  :  perhaps  it  lives, 
And  feels  the  noontide  sun,  and  drinks  refreshed 
The  dews  of  night.     Let  not  thy  gentle  hand 
Tear  its  life-strings  asunder  and  destroy 
The  sense  of  being  ! 


THE  TRAVELLER'S  RETURN. 

Sweet  to  the  morning  traveller 

The  song  amid  the  sky  ; 
Where,  twinkling  in  the  dewy  light, 

The  skylark  spars  on  high. 

And  cheering  to  the  traveller 
The  gales  that  round  him  play, 

When  faint  and  heavily  he  drags 
Along  his  noon-tide  way. 

And  when  beneath  the  unclouded  sun 

Full  wearily  toils  he, 
The  flowing  water  makes  to  him 

A  soothing  melody. 

And  when  the  evening  light  decays, 

And  all  is  calm  around, 
There  is  sweet  music  to  his  ear 

In  the  distant  sheep-bell's  sound. 


^,    EDITH  !    SPARE   THE   ROSE  '.  " — Page   174. 


IRobert  Soutbeg.  i75 

But  oh  !  of  all  delightful  sounds 

Of  evening  or  of  morn, 
The  sweetest  is  the  voice  of  Love, 

That  welcomes  his  return. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  COMFORTS,  AND  HOW  HE 
GAINED  THEM. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried  ; 

The  few  locks  which  are  left  you  are  gray; 
You  are  hale,  Father  William,  a  hearty  old  man  ; 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William  replied, 
I  remember'd  that  youth  would  fly  fast, 

And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigour  at  first, 
That  I  never  might  need  them  at  last. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried, 
And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away  ; 

And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are  gone 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  Father  William  replied, 
I  remember'd  that  youth  could  not  last  ; 

I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  I  did, 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past. 

You  are  old,  Father  William,  the  young  man  cried, 

And  life  must  be  hastening  away ; 
You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse  upon  death  ; 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. 

I  am  cheerful,  young  man,  Father  William  replied  ; 

Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage  ; 
In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remember'd  my  God  ! 

And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age. 


FROM  THE  DEVIL'S  WALK. 

He  owned  with  a  grin 
That  his  favourite  sin 
Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 


176  IRobert  SoutbeE. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 

It  was  a  summer  evening  ; 

Old  Kasper's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 
In  playing  there,  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Kasper  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
11  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  here  about ; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries  ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes  ; 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kasper  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out ; 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory.  m 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 
Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 


Iftobert  Soutbeg.  *77 

Tliey  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-born  baby  died  : 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

11  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Malbro'  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 
"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !  " 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
"  Nay — nay — my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"  And  everybody  praised  the  duke, 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ?  " 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he ; 
"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


THE  WELL  OF  ST.  KEYNE. 

"  I  know  not  whether  it  be  worth  the  reporting  that  there  is  in  Cornwall,  near 
the  parish  of  St.  Neots,  a  Well,  arched  over  with  the  robes  of  four  kinds  of  trees, 
withy,  oak,  elm,  and  ash,  dedicated  to  St.  Keyne.  The  reported  virtue  of  the 
water  is  this,  that  whether  husband  or  wife  come  first,  to  drink  thereof,  they  get 
the  mastery  thereby." — Fuller. 

A  Well  there  is  in  the  west  country, 
And  a  clearer  one  was  never  seen  ; 

There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne. 


*78  IRobert  Soutbeg. 

An  oak  and  an  elm-tree  stand  beside, 
And  behind  doth  an  ash-tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  to  the  water  below. 

A  traveller  came  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne ; 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh, 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  travelling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he  ; 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by, 

At  the  Well  to  fill  his  pail  ; 
On  the  Well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  hail. 

"  Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  Stranger  ?  "  quoth  he  ; 

"  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

"  Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast, 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 
For  an  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  hfe, 

She  has  drunk  of  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne." 

"  I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  Stranger  he  made  reply  ; 
"  But  that  my  draught  should  be  the  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why." 

"  St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornish-man,  "  many  a  time 

Drank  of  this  crystal  Well ; 
And  before  the  Angel  summon 'd  her, 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

"  If  the  Husband  of  this  gifted  Well 

Shall  drink  before  his  Wife, 
A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 


Irtobert  Soutbeg.  J79 

"  But  if  the  Wife  should  drink  of  it  first  — 

God  help  the  Husband  then  !  " 
The  Stranger  stoop'd  to  the  Well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  water  again. 

"  You  drank  of  the  Well,  I  warrant,  betimes  ?  " 

He  to  the  Cornish-man  said  : 
But  the  Cornish-man  smiled  as  the  Stranger 
spake, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

"  I  hasten'd  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 

And  left  my  Wife  in  the  porch  ; 
But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE. 

{Described  in  Rhymes  for  the  Nursery?) 

"  How  does  the  Water 
Come  down  at  Lodore  ?  " 
My  little  boy  ask'd  me 

Thus,  once  on  a  time  ! 
And  moreover  he  task'd  me 

To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 

Anon  at  the  word, 
There  came  first  one  daughter, 

And  then  came  another, 

To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother, 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 

Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 
So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 
For  of  rhymes  I  had  store  ; 
And  'twas  in  my  vocation 

For  their  recreation 

That  so  I  should  sing  ; 
Because  I  was  Laureate 
To  them  and  the  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  Tarn  on  the  fell ; 


l8°  Robert  Soutbeg* 

From  its  fountains 

In  the  mountains, 
Its  rills  and  its  gills ; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  awhile,  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  Lake. 
And  thence  at  departing, 
Awakening  and  starting, 
It  runs  through  the  reeds, 

And  away  it  proceeds, 
Through  meadow  and  glade, 

In  sun  and  in  shade, 
And  through  the  wood-shelter 
Among  crags  in  its  flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-scurry. 
Here  it  comes  sparkling, 
And  there  it  lies  darkling; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 
Till  in  this  rapid  race 

On  which  it  is  bent, 

It  reaches  the  place 

Of  its  deep  descent. 


The  Cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along, 
Striking  and  raging 
As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 
Rising  and  leaping, 
Sinking  and  creeping, 
Swelling  and  sweeping, 
Showering  and  springing. 
Flying  and  flinging, 
Writhing  and  ringing, 
Eddying  and  whisking, 
Spouting  and  frisking, 
Turning  and  twisting, 
Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound : 
Smiting  and  fighting, 
A  sight  to  delight  in  ; 
Confounding,  astounding, 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound. 


IRobevt  SoutbeB.  l8i 

Collecting,  projecting, 
Receding  and  speeding, 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing, 
And  dripping  and  skipping, 
And  hitting  and  splitting, 
And  shining  and  twining, 
And  rattling  and  battling, 
And  shaking  and  quaking, 
And  pouring  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving, 
And  tossing  and  crossing, 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning, 
And  foaming  and  roaming, 
And  dinning  and  spinning, 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking, 
And  guggling  and  struggling, 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning  ; 

And  glittering  and  frittering, 
And  gathering  and  feathering, 
And  whitening  and  brightening, 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 
And  thundering  and  floundering; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding, 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling, 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting, 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying, 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dancing, 
Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  boiling, 
And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and  beaming, 
And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gushing, 


Robert  Soutbeg. 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slapping, 
And  curling  and  whirling  and  purling  and  twirling, 
And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jumping, 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing, 
And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending, 
Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blending, 
All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar, 
And  this  way  the  Water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

An  old  writer  mentions  a  curious  tradition  which  may  be  worth  quoting.  *'  By 
east  the  Isle  of  May,"  says  he,  "  twelve  miles  from  all  land  in  the  German  seas, 
lyes  a  great  hidden  rock,  called  Inchcape,  very  dangerous  for  navigators,  because 
it  is  overflowed  everie  tide.  It  is  reported,  in  old  times,  upon  the  saide  rock  there 
was  a  bell,  fixed  upon  a  tree  or  timber,  which  rang  continually,  being  moved  by 
the  sea,  given  notice  to  the  saylers  of  the  danger.  This  bell  or  cl<  eke  was  put 
there  and  maintained  by  the  Abbott  of  Aberbrothok,  and  being  taken  down  by  a 
s<^a  pirate,  a  yeare  thereafter  he  perished  upon  the  same  rocke  with  ship  and 
&oodes,  in  the  righteous  Judgement  of  God." — Stoddard's  Remarks  on  Scotland. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be  ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion  ; 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flow'd  over  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  the  Bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  Bell ; 
And  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blest  the  Abbott  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  wras  shining  gay  ; 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 

The  sea-birds  scream'd  as  they  wheel'd  round, 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walk'd  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 


IRobert  SoutbeE.  183 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring; 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float : 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lower'd,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go  ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  he  cut  the  Bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sunk  the  Bell  with  a  gurgling  sound  ; 

The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around  ; 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the 

Rock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sail'd  away  ; 
He  scour'd  the  seas  for  many  a  day  ; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plunder'd  store, 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky, 
They  cannot  see  the  Sun  on  high  ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day  ; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand  ; 

So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 

For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  Moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers  roar  ? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore." 
"  Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound  ;  the  swell  is  strong, 
Though  the  wind  had  fallen,  they  drift  along, 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock, — 
"  Oh,  Christ !  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock  !  " 


*%4  IRobert  Soutbe^. 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair ; 
He  curs'd  himself  in  his  despair; 
The  waves  rushed  in  on  every  side  ; 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But,  even  in  his  dying  fear, 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear- 
A  sound  as  if,  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 


STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  MY  LIBRARY. 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  pass'd ; 

Around  me  I  behold 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old. 
My  never  failing  friends  are  they 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe  ; 
,  And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  dead  ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years  ; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  dead  ;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be, 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  futurity  : 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


EPITAPH. 

This  to  a  mother's  sacred  memory 
Her  son  hath  hallow'd.     Absent  many  a  year 
Far  over  sea,  his  sweetest  dreams  were  still 
Of  that  dear  voice  which  soothed  his  infancy  ; 


IRobert  Soutbeg,  185 

And  after  many  a  fight  against  the  Moor 
And  Malabar,  or  that  tierce  cavalry 
Which  he  had  seen  covering  the  boundless  plain, 
Even  to  the  utmost  limits  where  the  eye 
Could  pierce  the  far  horizon, —  his  first  thought 
In  safety  was  of  her,  who,  when  she  heard 
The  tale  of  that  day's  danger,  would  retire 
And  pour  her  pious  gratitude  to  Heaven 
In  prayers  and  tears  of  joy.     The  lingering  hour 
Of  his  return,  long-look'd-for,  came  at  length, 
And  full  of  hope  he  reach'd  his  native  shore. 
Vain  hope  that  puts  its  trust  in  human  life! 
For  ere  he  came,  the  number  of  her  days 
Was  full.     O  Reader,  what  a  world  were  this, 
How  unendurable  its  weight,  if  they 
Whom  Death  hath  sunder'd  did  not  meet  again  ! 


TO  MARY  WOLSTONECRAFT. 

BRISTOL,  1795. 

The  lily  cheek,  the  "  purple  light  of  love," 
The  liquid  lustre  of  the  melting  eye, 
Mary  !  of  these  the  poet  sung,  for  these 
Did  woman  triumph  :  turn  not  thou  away 
Contemptuous  from  the  theme.     No  Maid  of  Arc 
Had,  in  those  ages,  for  her  country's  cause 
Wielded  the  sword  of  freedom  ;  no  Roland 
Had  borne  the  palm  of  female  fortitude  ; 
No  Corde,  with  self-sacrificing  zeal, 
Had  glorified  again  the  Avenger's  name, 
As  erst  when  Caesar  perished  :  happy,  too, 
Some  strains  may  hence  be  drawn,  befitting  me 
To  offer,  nor  unworthy  thy  regard. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  SONNETS. 
I. 

Fair  is  the  rising  morn  when  o'er  the  sky 
The  orient  sun  expands  his  roseate  ray  ; 

And  lovely  to  the  musing  poet's  eye 

Fades  the  soft  radiance  of  departing  day  ; 

But  fairer  is  the  smile  of  one  we  love, 

Than  all  the  scenes  in  nature's  ample  sway  ; 

And  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  grove, 


186  IRobert  Soutbeg. 

The  voice  that  bids  us  welcome.     Such  delight, 
Edith  !  is  mine,  escaping  to  thy  sight 

From  the  cold  converse  of  the  indifferent  throng 
Too  swiftly  then  toward  the  silent  night, 

Ye  hours  of  happiness,  ye  speed  along, 
Whilst  I,  from  all  the  world's  dull  cares  apart, 
Pour  out  the  feelings  of  my  burdened  heart. 

II. 

How  darkly  o'er  yon  far-off  mountain  frowns 
The  gathered  tempest  !  from  that  lurid  cloud 
The  deep-voiced  thunders  roll,  awful  and  loud, 

Though  distant  ;  while  upon  the  misty  downs 
Fast  falls  in  shadowy  streaks  the  pelting  rain. 

I  never  saw  so  terrible  a  storm  ! 

Perhaps  some  way-worn  traveller  in  vain 

Wraps  his  thin  raiment  round  his  shivering  form, 
Cold  even  as  hope  within  him.     I  the  while 
Pause  here  in  sadness,  though  the  sunbeams  smile 

Cheerily  around  me.     Ah,  that  thus  my  lot 

Might  be  with  peace  and  solitude  assigned, 

Where  I  might  from  some  little  quiet  cot 

Sigh  for  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  mankind. 

III. 

0  THOU  sweet  Lark  !  who,  in  the  heaven  so  high ! 
Twinkling  thy  wings,  dost  sing  so  joyfully  ! 

1  watch  thee  soaring  with  a  deep  delight, 

And,  when  at  last  I  turn  my  waking  eye 
That  lags  below  thee  in  the  infinite, 

Still  in  my  heart  receive  thy  melody. 
O  thou  sweet  Lark  !  that  I  had  wings  like  thee ! 

Not  for  the  joy  it  were  in  yon  blue  light 
Upward  to  mount,  and  from  my  heavenly  height 

Gaze  on  the  creeping  multitude  below  ; 
But  that  I  soon  would  wing  my  eager  flight 

To  that  loved  home  where  Fancy  even  now 
Hath  fled,  and  Hope  looks  onward  through  a  tear, 
Counting  the  weary  hours  that  hold  her  here. 


Thou  lingerest,  Spring  !  still  wintry  is  the  scene  ; 

The  fields  their  dead  and  sapless  russet  wear  ; 

Scarce  doth  the  glossy  celandine  appear 
Starring  the  sunny  bank,  or  early  green 


"AS   THUS   1    STAND    BESIDE   THE   MURMURING    STREAM.' 

— Page  187. 


IRobert  SoutbeB.  I^7 

The  elder  yet  its  circling  tufts  put  forth  ; 

The  sparrow  tenants  still  the  eaves-built  nest, 

Where  we  should  see  our  martin's  snowy  breast 
Oft  darting  out ;  the  blasts  from  the  bleak  north, 
And  from  the  keener  blast,  still  frequent  blow. 
Sweet  Spring!  thou  lingerest  ;  and  it  should  be  so  : 

Late  let  the  fields  and  gardens  blossom  out  ! 
Like  man  when  most  with  smiles  thy  face  is  dressed, 
'Tis  to  deceive  ;  and  he  who  knows  ye  best, 

When  most  ye  promise,  ever  most  must  doubt. 

v. 

As  thus  I  stand  beside  the  murmuring  stream, 
And  watch  its  current,  memory  here  portrays 
Scenes  faintly  formed  of  half-forgotten  days, 

Like  far-off  woodlands  by  the  moon's  bright  beam 

Dimly  descried,  but  lonely.     I  have  worn 
Amid  these  haunts  the  heavy  hours  away 
When  childhood  idled  through  the  Sabbath  day  ; 

Risen  to  my  tasks  at  winter's  earliest  morn  ; 
And,  when  the  summer  twilight  darkened  here, 

Thinking  of  home,  and  all  of  heart  forlorn, 
Have  sighed,  and  shed  in  secret  many  a  tear. 
Dreamlike  and  indistinct  those  days  appear, 

As  the  faint  sounds  of  this  low  brooklet  borne 
Upon  the  breeze,  reach  fitfully  the  ear. 


SONNET  TO  THE  EVENING  RAINBOW. 

Mild  arch  of  promise  !  on  the  evening  sky 

Thou  shinest  fair  with  many  a  lovely  ray, 
Each  in  the  other  melting.     Much  mine  eye 

Delights  to  linger  on  thee  ;  for  the  day, 
Changeful  and  many-weathered,  seemed  to  smile 
Flashing  brief  splendour  through  its  clouds  awhile, 

Which  deepened  dark  anon,  and  fell  in  rain  : 
But  pleasant  it  is  now  to  pause,  and  view 
Thy  various  tints  of  frail  and  watery  hue, 

And  think  the  storm  shall  not  return  again. 
Such  is  the  smile  that  piety  bestows 

On  the  good  man's  pale  cheek,  when  he,  in  peace 
Departing  gently  from  a  world  of  woes, 

Anticipates  the  realm  where  sorrows  cease. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

Born  at  Cockermouth,  Cumberland,  in  1770.  Made  Laureate  in  1843.  Died  at 
Rydal  Mount  in  1850. 

(Reign  of  Victoria.) 

IT  is  quite  easy  to  point  out,  as  many  critics  are  fond  of 
doing,  the  limitations  of  Wordsworth's  genius.  He  was  often 
trammelled  by  his  theories  ;  his  mind  was  somewhat  rigid  and 
inflexible;  he  had  no  humour;  he  wrote  often  without  inspira- 
tion, hence  is  prolix  and  tedious ;  his  subject-matter  is  some- 
times trivial  or  of  such  a  philosophical  nature  as  to  lie  outside 
of  the  domain  of  true  poetry,  and  when  he  wrote  in  this  manner 
his  diction,  too,  differs  little  from  that  of  prose.  He  is  there- 
fore one  of  the  most  unequal  of  poets.  But  judging  Words- 
worth by  his  best,  his  most  characteristic  work,  it  must  be  con- 
ceded that  he  is  the  greatest  poet  of  modern  England — with  the 
single  exception  of  Goethe,  the  greatest  poet  of  the  modern, 
world. 

A  high  claim — but  it  is  made  because  Wordsworth  not  only 
deals  in  so  transcendently  beautiful  and  original  a  manner  with 
the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  the  outward  world  ;  or  treats  with 
such  power  certain  primitive  characteristics  of  humanity  and 
vindicates  the  dramatic  interest  which  belongs  to  the  person- 
ality of  man  apart  from  all  social  or  political  conditions  ;  but 
because  he  furnishes  so  much  for  the  human  spirit  to  rest  on  ; 
he  points  to  such  deep  springs  of  joy  ;  he  appeals  not  only  to 
the  heart  and  its  affections,  or  to  the  imagination  and  the 
artistic  sense,  but  he  has  a  direct  influence  upon  the  human 
will  ;  having  himself  lived  from  a  "  great  depth  of  being,"  he 
creates  high  thinking,  he  stimulates  the  noblest  impulses  and 
ministers  with  irresistible  power  to  the  health  of  the  soul. 

Wordsworth  from  the  first  believed  in  the  sacredness  of  his 
message  to  the  world,  that  his  mission  was  to  reveal  a  "  glory 
very  near  but  sealed  to  the  many  "  ;  and  because  he  had  this 
new  revelation  of  spiritual  truth,  his  poetry  has  become  a 
priceless  heritage  for  all  future  poets,  and  by  its  formative 
influences  has  widened  the  range  of  poetry  forever. 

The  supremacy  of  Wordsworth's  poetry  is  assured  because 
it  has  that  surest  safeguard  against  oblivion:  his  teaching 
has,  as  Lowell  said,  become  a  part  of  the  air  we  breathe.  His 
poetry  is  as  immortal  as  the  heart  of  man  ! 

188 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 


TOlltam  TOorDsvvortb.  189 

The  common  idea  of  Wordsworth  is  that  he  is  the  high 
priest  of  nature — that  having  spent  his  life  among  hills  and 
lakes  he  has  seized  every  phase  of  their  scenery  and  painted  it 
in  detail.  But  Wordsworth's  distinctive  originality  does  not 
consist  in  his  descriptive  powers.  Before  him  there  had  been 
poets  who  loved  nature  and  described  with  charm  and  power 
the  varied  objects  that  make  up  her  loveliness.  Wordsworth 
had  an  intense  consciousness  of  the  loveliness  or  the  grandeur 
of  nature ;  it  came  to  him  with  the  force,  the  magic,  the 
splendour  of  a  new  discovery.  Vivid  delight  came  to  him  not 
only  at  the  moment  of  perception,  but  long  afterwards,  for  he 
speaks  of  the  dear  remembrances  of  outward  scenes,  of  the 
tranquil  restoration  in  those  remembrances. 

Wottiswo4i[(rSs  indeed  a  minute  observer  of  nature's  mani- 
fold and  changing  forms,  and  a  describer  of  her  individual 
beauties.  But  he  is  more  than  this.  He  looks  at  a  scene  as  a 
whole,  seeks  the  source  of  its  mystery,  of  its  charm  or  its 
grandeur  I  his  impassioned  and  meditative  imagination  pene- 
trates to  the  very  life,  the  soul  of  things.  By  this  process  he 
not  only  gets  a  deeper  sense  of  beauty,  a  perception  of  the 
spiritual  reality  which  lies  back  of  all  natural  manifestations, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  the  heart  and  mind  of  man  are  more 
profoundly  understood.  Every  beautiful  appearance  of  the 
sky  or  of  the  earth,  possessing,  as  it  does,  a  sentiment  of  its 
own,  which  is  not  a  creation  of  the  observer's  mood,  but  an 
emanation  from  its  own  separate  life,  has  a  distinct  influence 
upon  the  mind  of  man.  Wordsworth  deals  with  this  influence. 
It  is  this  treatment  of  nature  and  man  in  union  which,  more 
than  anything  else,  constitutes  Wordsworth's  claim  to  being 
the  prophet  of  a  new  revelation.  He  perceived  an  exquisite 
adaptation  of  nature  to  the  mind  of  man,  and  the  mind  of  man 
to  the  outward  world.  The  joy  which  finds  such  frequent 
mention  in  his  verse  comes  from  the  "  living  presence "  of 
nature,  which  has  an  active  power  of  her  own  distinct  from 
man  coming  in  contact  with  the  soul  of  man,  which  has  the 
power  to  perceive  and  feel.  This  reciprocal  action  is  there- 
fore the  haunt  and  main  region  of  Wordsworth's  song. 

Th4#he  gives  not  only  a  sublime  explanation  of  man's  intel- 
lect in  its  subtle  relations  to  external  things,  but  of  man's 
moral  and  spiritual  affinities  to  the  Soul  of  the  world.  To 
treat  nature  and  man  as  Wordsworth  treats  them,  is,  as  De 
Vere  beautifully  says,  to  see  the  Invisible.  Without  God  the 
beneficent  ministry  of  nature  would  be  but  mockery;  indeed, 
without  him  nature  could  not  be  the  "  quickener  of  the  finest 
impulses  of  the  soul."  God  and  Immortality,  as  well  as  man 
and  nature,  are  the  subjects  of  Wordsworth's  impassioned  and 
majestic   verse.     He   had  a   most   glorious  vision  of   spiritual 


i9°  TlMillfam  IKIlorDswortb. 

truth  revealed  to  him,  "  a  glory  very  near  but  sealed  to  the 
many,"  and  where  he  deals  with  this  vision  as  he  does  in  his 
best  and  most  characteristic  poetry,  his  language  has  an  inten- 
sity, a  majesty  of  style,  a  power,  a  mastery  of  touch,  which  is 
unequalled  among  modern  poets. 

It  was  an  outgrowth  of  Wordsworth's  mode  of  viewing  man 
as  moulded  by  the  influences  of  nature,  that  when  he  came  to 
treat  life  concretely,  deal  with  individual  men  and  women,  he 
should  choose  just  the  characters  he  did.  Wordsworth  treats 
life  in  the  spirit  of  art,  but  still  more  with  the  earnestness  of  the 
moralist.  He  treats  it  powerfully,  profoundly, — its  passion,  its 
pathos,  its  tragedy, — and  he  seeks  in  lowly  places,  among 
solitary,  pastoral  scenes,  for  some  of  the  highest  examples  of 
heroism,  of  patience,  of  self-control,  of  unselfish  love.  The 
democratic  ideas  Wordsworth  cherished  in  his  youth  had  a 
marked  influence  upon  the  development  of  his  genius.  It  is 
the  personal  being,  man  as  he  is  in  himself,  the  primitive  type, 
that  Wordsworth  values.  "  Wordsworth's  distinctive  work," 
says  Ruskin,  "  was  a  war  with  pomp  and  pretence,  and  a  dis- 
play of  the  majesty  of  simple  feelings  and  humble  hearts,  to- 
gether with  high  reflective  truths  in  his  analysis  of  the  courses 
of  policies  and  ways  of  men  ;  without  these  his  love  of  Nature 
would  have  been  comparatively  worthless."  Walter  Pater 
says  :  "  A  sort  of  biblical  depth  and  solemnity  hangs  over  this 
strange,  new,  passionate,  pastoral  world,  of  which  he  first* 
raised  the  image,  and  the  reflection  of  which  some  of  our  best 
modern  fiction  has  caught  from  him." 

By  thus  "  redeeming  from  decay  the  visitations  of  the 
divinity  in  man,"  and  linking  that  divinity  to  every  lovely  mani- 
festation of  sea  and  sky  and  earth,  and  making  of  the  material 
a  bridge  to  lead  humanity  up  to  the  supreme,  the  spiritual 
reality,  Wordsworth  has  proved  himself  to  be  the  great  poet 
that  he  is. 

But  our  space  is  wholly  inadequate  to  a  discussion  of  the 
peculiarties  of  Wordsworth's  genius.  His  poetry  must  itself  be 
read  over  and  over  again.*  A  certain  poem  may  not  only  be 
enchanting  or  of  interest  irt  itself,  but  it  also  forms  a  part  of  a 
harmonious  system.  \  "  The  Prelude  "  and  "  The  Recluse  " 
composed  between  the  years  1799  and  1805,  trace  the  growth 
of  his  mind,  how  it  had  been  moulded  by  the  awe  and 
the  love  inspired  by  the  majesty  and  the  beauty^)f  Nature's 
sights  and  sounds;  how  thoughts  of  his  high  mission  had 
come  to  him  in  childhood,  but  had  been  obscured  by  the 
failure  of  his  political  hopes,  though  afterwards  restored  and 
strengthened  by  the  influence  of  his  beloved  sister  Dorothy ; 
finally  when  he  settled  with  her  in  the  home  at  Grasmere,  his 
vague   aspirations   became   crystallised  into    a  deliberate   and 


TKHilliam  llWorfcewortb.  191 

conscious  purpose.  "  Tinteni  Abbey,"  written  in  1798  and 
published  among  the  famous  "Lyrical  Ballads  "  (which  also 
contained  "  We  are  Seven  "),  was  the  first  notable  expression 
of  Wordsworth's  spirituality  of  vision,  of  his  perception  of 
nature's  subtle  relations  to  man  and  to  Infinitude.  This  poem 
"  introduced  into  English  poetry  an  element  which  it  never  had 
before,  and  has  never  parted  with  since."  The  same  imagi- 
native grasp  of  relations  and  influences  matfe  the  "  Ode  on 
Immortality  "  so  great  a  poem,  "  An  Evening  of  Extraordinary 
Splendour  and  Beauty,"  composed  in  1818,  is,  perhaps,  Words- 
worth's last  powerful  expression  of  that  peculiar  "  ethereal 
gleam,"  that  visionary  light,  which  from  childhood  he  had  seen 
resting  upon  all  natural  objects.  For  an  understanding  of  the 
essential  features  of  Wordsworth's  poetry  a  study  of  these  three 
poems  is  indispensable.* 

Wordsworth's  life  extended  over  the  long  period  of  eighty 
years.  It  was  a  life  distinguished  from  first  to  last  for  its  un- 
flinching virtue,  its  unworklliness,  its  devotion  to  high  ideals  ; 
for  its  tenderness  for  his  sister,  his  wife,  his  children,  and 
friends  ;  for  its  earnest  and  thoughtful  patriotism.  To  Words- 
worth can  well  be  applied  his  own  famous  lines  on  Milton : 

41  Thy  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart  ; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea  : 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay." 

Because  Wordsworth  had  to  create  the  taste  to  judge 
rightly  the  poetical  work  which  was  to  mark  an  epoch  in  Eng- 
lish poetry,  he  had  to  wait  long  for  recognition  and  justice,  and 
while  waiting  with  such  serenity  and  patience,  he  had  mean- 
while to  endure  much  ridicule  from  men  even  of  ability.  But 
victory  came  at  last,  and  the  world  came  round  to  Words- 
worth. The  triumph  at  Oxford  was  the  first  tangible  evidence 
that  what  he  had  done  for  England  was  being  felt  at  last. 
Thirty  years  before,  Southey  had  said  in  reference  to  Jeffrey's 
boast  that  he  would  crush  "  The  Excursion  ":  "  He  crush  '  The 
Excursion  '  ?     He  might  as  well  try  to  crush  Mount  Skiddaw." 

*  To  our  surprise  Matthew  Arnold  did  not  include  "  An  Evening  of  Extra- 
ordinary Splendour  and  Beauty  "  in  his  famous  book  of  Selections.  In  making  our 
selections  from  such  a  poet  as  Wordsworth,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  do  him  justice 
in  the  space  at  our  command.  We  are  compelled  to  omit  many  of  his  finest 
pastoral  poems,  and  of  the  wonderful  sonnets  we  can  give  only  a  few.  In  the 
absence  of  the  biographical  details  which  are  well-known  to  every  student  of 
English  poetry,  we  have  given  some  stray  poems  under  the  title  of  "  Self  Portrai- 
ture": have  linked  together  the  famous  Lucy  Poems  ;  those  relating  to  Dorothy 
and  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth  ;  and  have  chosen  lines  from  "  The  Prelude,"  "  The 
Kecluse,"  and  "  The  Excursion,"  which  are  of  great  value  in  a  study  of  the  growth 
of  the  poet's  mind  under  the  influences  of  nature's  sights  and  sounds. 


/ 


*92  TOUliam  TOov&swortb. 

Now,  in  1843,  when  Southey  died,  Sir  Robert  Peel  in  a  letter  full 
of  tender  and  grateful  feeling  proffered  to  Wordsworth  the 
Laureateship  of  England.  But  this  honour  came  to  a  man  old 
in  years,  whose  spirit  had  been  saddened  by  many  sorrows. 
He  refused  at  first,  but  Peel  and  the  Lord  Chamberlain  both 
wrote  again. 

The  victory  of  Wordsworth's  poetry  was  not  alone  because 
it  was  so  great,  so  formative,  so  wide  in  range  ;  but  because 
the  poet  in  it  spoke  to  the  world  in  his  real  voice,  because  he 
was  sincere,  with  that  truth  and  that  sincerity  which  belongs 
to  a  strong  nature,  to  a  serious  and  lofty  soul. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE  POET  LAUREATE. 
{From  "  The  Russian  Fugitive.1') 

'TlS  sung-  in  ancient  minstrelsy 

That  Phoebus  wont  to  wear 
The  leaves  of  any  pleasant  tree 

Around  his  golden  hair  ; 
'Till  Daphne,  desperate  with  pursuit 

Of  his  imperious  love, 
At  her  own  prayer  transformed,  took  root, 

A  laurel  in  the  grove. 

Then  did  the  Penitent  adorn 

His  brow  with  laurel  green  ; 
And  mid  his  bright  locks  never  shorn 

No  meaner  leaf  was  seen  ; 
And  poets  sage,  through  every  age, 

About  their  temples  wound 
The  bay  ;  and  conquerors  thanked  the  Gods, 

With  laurel  chaplets  crowned. 

1830. 

THE  POET. 


If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven 
Then  to  the  measure  of  that  heaven-born  light, 
Shine  Poet,  in  thy  place,  and  be  content. 

1832. 
II. 

A  POET  ! — he  hath  put  his  heart  to  school, 
Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon  the  staff 
Which  Art  hath  lodged  within  his  hand — must  laugh 

By  precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule. 


*94  raiMam  TKlIorfcswortb. 

Thy  Art  be  nature;  the  live  current  quaff, 
And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool, 
In  fear  that  else,  when  critics  grave  and  cool 

Have  killed  him,  Scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 
How  does  the  meadow-flower  its  bloom  unfold  ? 

Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 
Down  to  its  root,  and  in  that  freedom  bold  ; 

And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  forest-tree 
Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  formal  mould, 

But  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 


1842. 


III. 

The  poet,  gentle  creature  as  he  is 
Hath,  like  the  lover,  his  unruly  times  ; 
His  fits  when  he  is  neither  sick  nor  well, 
Though  no  distress  be  near  him  but  his  own 
Unmanageable  thoughts. 

—  The  Prelude. 

Prelude  and  Recluse  composed  1 799-1 805. 


SELF-PORTRAITURE. 


{From  "  Poets  Epitaph") 

But  who  is  he  with  modest  looks 
And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown  ? 

He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  clew 

Or  fountain  in  a  noonday  grove  ; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 

He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 

Or  hill  and  valley,  he  has  view'd ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 

Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart — 

The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

1799- 


militant  TClor&ewortb,  195 


How  pure  his  spirit — in  what  vivid  hues 

His  mind  gives  back  the  various  forms  of  things, 

Caught  in  their  fairest,  happiest  attitude  ! 

—  The  Excursion.     Book  IX. 

III. 

For  I  would  walk  alone, 
Under  the  quiet  stars,  and  at  that  time 
Have  felt  what  e'er  there  is  of  power  in  sound 
To  breathe  an  elevated  mood,  by  form 
Or  image  unprofaned  ;  and  I  would  stand 
If  the  night  blackened  with  a  coming  storm, 
Beneath  some  rock,  listening  to  notes  that  are 
The  ghostly  language  of  the  ancient  earth, 
Or  make  their  dim  abode  in  distant  winds. 
Thence  did  I  drink  the  visionary  power  ; 
And  deem  not  profitless  those  fleeting  moods 
Of  shadowy  exultation. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  II. 

IV. 

"THERE  WAS  A  BOY." 

There  was  a  boy  ;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 

And  islands  of  Winander  ! — many  a  time, 

At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 

To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 

Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 

Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering  lake; 

And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 

Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to  his  mouth 

Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 

Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 

That  they  might  answer  him.     And  they  would  shout 

Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 

Responsive  to  his  call,  with  quivering  peals, 

And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud 

Redoubled  and  redoubled — concourse  wild 

Of  mirth  and  jocund  din  !     And  when  it  chanced 

That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mocked  his  skill, 

Then  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 

List e fting,  a  ge?itle  shock  of  mild  surprise 

Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 

Of  mountaiti  torrents  ;  or  the  visible  scene 


*96  WitlUam  TKllorfcswortb. 

Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 

With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 

Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 


1799- 


PERSONAL  TALK. 

I  AM  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk 
Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk, 
Or  neighbours  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight  ; 
And,  for  my  chance-acquaintance,  ladies  bright, 
Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the  stalk, 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  forms  with  chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men's  floors  for  one  feast-night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire  ; 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim, 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame, 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 

"  Yet  life,"  you  say,  "  is  life  ;  we  have  seen  and  see, 

And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe  ; 

And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 

The  languid  mind  into  activity. 

Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and  glee 

Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe." 

Even  be  it  so  ;  yet  still  among  your  tribe, 

Our  daily  world's  true  Worldlings,  rank  not  me  ! 

Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ;  their  world  lies 

More  justly  balanced  ;  partly  at  their  feet, 

And  part  far  from  them  :  sweetest  melodies 

Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet; 

Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes, 

He  is  a  slave ;  the  meanest  we  can  meet ! 

Wings  have  we  ;  and  as  far  as  we  can  go 
We  may  find  pleasure  :  wilderness  and  wood^ 
Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 
Dreams,  books,  are  each  a  world  ;  and  books,  we  know, 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good  : 
Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 


ITClUlfam  TlGlorfcswortb.  197 

There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous  store, 

Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am, 

To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear ; 

Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear — 

The  gentle  lady  married  to  the  Moor  ; 

And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  lamb. 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 

Great  gains  are  mine  ;  for  thus  I  live  remote 

From  evil-speaking  ;  rancour,  never  sought, 

Comes  to  me  not  ;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 

Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 

Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and  joyous  thought. 

And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 

Rocks  in  its  harbour,  lodging  peaceably. 

Blessings  be  with  them,  and  eternal  praise, 

Who  gave  us  nobler  loves  and  nobler  cares — 

The  poets  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 

Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays  ! 

Oh  !  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs, 

Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 

1806. 


POEMS  RELATING  TO  WORDSWORTH'S  MISSION, 
THE  GROWTH  OF  HIS  MIND,  THE  SUBJECTS 
OF  HIS  VERSE. 


Fair  seed-time  had  my  soul,  and  I  grew  up 
Fostered  alike  by  beauty  and  by  fear : 

Dust  as  we  are,  the  immortal  spirit  grows 
Like  harmony  in  music  ;  there  is  a  dark 
Inscrutable  workmanship  that  reconciles 
Discordant  elements,  makes  them  cling  together 
In  one  society.     How  strange,  that  all 
The  terrors,  pains,  and  early  miseries, 
Regrets,  vexations,  lassitudes  interfused 
Within  my  mind,  should  e'er  have  borne  a  part 
And  that  a  needful  part,  in  making  up 
The  calm  existence  that  is  mine  when  I 
Am  worthy  of  myself. 

Wisdom  and  spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Thou  soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought ! 


198  timwfam  TOortewortb. 

And  giv'st  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion  !  not  in  vain. 
By  clay  or  starlight,  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul : 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man, — 
But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things, 
With  life  and  nature  ;  purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
And  sanctifying  by  such  discipline 
Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognise 
A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 
With  stinted  kindness.     In  November  days, 
When  vapours,  rolling  down  the  valleys,  made 
A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome ;  among  woods 
At  noon  ;  and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights, 
When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake, 
Beneath  the  gloomy  hills,  I  homeward  went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine  : 
'Twas  mine  among  the  fields  both  day  and  night, 
And  by  the  waters  all  the  summer  long. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a  mile, 
The  cottage  windows  through  the  twilight  blazed, 
I  heeded  not  the  summons  ; — happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us  ;  for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture  !—  Clear  and  loud 
The  village  clock  tolled  six — I  wheeled  about, 
Proud  and  exulting,  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  its  home.     All  shod  with  steel, 
We  hissed  along  the  polish'd  ice,  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures — the  resounding  horn, 
The  pack  loud-bellowing,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle:  with  the  din 
Meanwhile  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tingled  like  iron  ;  while  the  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars, 
Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 


Ilfflflliam  TKHortewortb*  199 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sidevvay,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 
To  cut  across  the  image  of  a  star, 
That  gleamed  upon  the  ice;  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short ;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  traii\, 
Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  I. 
II. 

For  the  man, 
Who,  in  this  spirit,  communes  with  the  forms 
Of  Nature  ;  who,  with  understanding  heart, 
Both  knows  and  loves  such  objects  as  excite 
No  morbid  passions,  no  disquietude, 
No  vengeance,  and  no  hatred,  needs  must  feel 
The  joy  of  that  pure  principle  of  love 
So  deeply,  that,  unsatisfied  with  aught 
Less  pure  and  exquisite,  he  cannot  choose 
But  seek  for  objects  of  a  kindred  love 
In  fellow-natures  and  a  kindred  joy. 
A  holy  tenderness  pervades  his  frame. 
His  sanity  of  reason  not  impaired, 
Say  rather,  all  his  thoughts  now  flowing  clear, 
From  a  clear  fountain  flowing,  he  looks  round 
And  seeks  for  good  ;  and  finds  the  good  he  seeks ; 
Until  abhorrence  and  contempt  are  things 
He  only  knows  by  name  :  and  if  he  hear 
From  other  mouths,  the  language  which  they  speak, 
He  is  compassionate  :  and  has  no  thought, 
No  feeling,  which  can  overcome  his  love. 

And  further  ;  by  contemplating  these  forms 
In  the  relations  which  they  bear  to  man, 
He  shall  discern,  how,  through  the  various  means 
Which  silently  they  yield,  are  multiplied 
The  spiritual  presences  of  absent  things, 
Convoked  by  knowledge  ;  and  for  his  delight 
Still  ready  to  obey  the  gentle  call. 


200  IKMlliam  Worfcswortb. 

Trust  me,  that  for  the  instructed,  time  will  come 

When  they  shall  meet  no  object  but  may  teach 

Some  acceptable  lesson  to  their  minds 

Of  human  suffering,  or  of  human  joy. 

So  they  shall  learn,  while  all  things  speak  of  man, 

Their  duties  from  all  forms  ;  and  general  laws, 

And  local  accidents,  shall  tend  alike 

To  rouse,  to  urge,  and  with  the  will  confer 

The  ability  to  spread  the  blessings  wide 

Of  true  philanthropy.     The  light  of  love 

Not  failing,  perseverance  from  their  steps 

Departing  not,  for  them  shall  be  confirmed 

The  glorious  habit  by  which  sense  is  made 

Subservient  still  to  moral  purposes, 

Auxiliar  to  divine.     That  change  shall  clothe 

The  naked  spirit,  ceasing  to  deplore 

The  burthen  of  existence.     Science  then 

Shall  be  a  precious  visitant ;  and  then, 

And  only  then,  be  worthy  of  her  name. 

For  then  her  heart  shall  kindle  ;  her  dull  eye, 

Dull  and  inanimate,  no  more  shall  hang 

Chained  to  its  object  in  brute  slavery  ; 

But  taught  with  patient  interest  to  watch 

The  processes  of  things,  and  serve  the  cause 

Of  order  and  distinctness,  not  for  this 

Shall  it  forget  that  its  most  noble  use, 

Its  most  illustrious  province,  must  be  found 

In  furnishing  clear  guidance,  a  support 

Not  treacherous,  to  the  mind's  excursive  power. 

— So  build  we  up  the  Being  that  we  are  : 

Thus  deeply  drinking  in  the  soul  of  things, 

We  shall  be  wise  perforce :  and  while  inspired 

By  choice,  and  conscious  that  the  Will  is  free; 

Unswerving  shall  we  move,  as  if  impelled 

By  strict  necessity,  along  the  path 

Of  order  and  of  good.     Whate'er  we  see 

Or  feel,  shall  tend  to  quicken  and  refine, 

Shall  fix  in  calmer  seats  of  moral  strength 

Earthly  desires,  and  raise  to  loftier  heights 

Of  love  divine,  our  intellectual  soul. 

—  The  Excursion.    Book  IV. 


III. 

Ye  Presences  of  Nature  in  the  sky 
And  on  the  earth  !     Ye  Visions  of  the  hills  ! 
And  Souls  of  lonely  places  I  can  I  think 


William  WorDswortb,  2c 

A  vulgar  hope  was  yours  when  ye  employed 
Such  ministry,  when  ye,  through  many  a  year 
Haunting  me  thus  among  my  boyish  sports, 
On  caves  and  trees,  upon  the  woods  and  hills, 
Impressed,  upon  all  forms,  the  characters 
Of  danger  or  desire  ;  and  thus  did  make 
The  surface  of  the  universal  earth, 
With  triumph  and  delight,  with  hope  and  fear, 
Work  like  a  sea  ? 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  L 


IV. 

On  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  Human  Life, 

Musing  in  solitude,  I  oft  perceive 

Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise, 

Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight 

Pure,,  or  with  no  unpleasing  sadness  mixed  ; 

And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 

And  dear  remembrances,  whose  presence  soothes 

Or  elevates  the  Mind,  intent  to  weigh 

The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 

— To  these  emotions,  whencesoe'er  they  come, 

Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 

Or  from  the  Soul — an  impulse  to  herself — 

I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous  verse. 

Of  Truth,  of  Grandeur,  Beauty,  Love  and  Hope, 

And  melancholy  Fear  subdued  by  Faith  ; 

Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress  ; 

Of  moral  strength  and  intellectual  Power  ; 

Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread  ; 

Of  the  individual  Mind  that  keeps  her  own 

Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 

To  Conscience  only,  and  the  law  supreme 

Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs  all — 

I  sing : — "  fit  audience  let  me  find  through  few !  " 

.   .   .   Not  Chaos,  not 
The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 
Nor  aught  of  blinder  vacancy,  scooped  out 
By  help  of  dreams — can  breed  such  fear  and  awe 
As  fall  upon  us  often  when  we  look 
Into  our.  Minds,  into  the  Mind  of  Man — 
My  haunt  and  the  main  region  of  my  song. 
— Beauty — a  living  Presence  of  the  earth 
Surpassing  the  most  fair  ideal  Forms 
Which  craft  of  delicate  Spirits  hath  composed 
From  earth's  materials — waits  upon  my  steps  ; 


TKUxlliam  IIMor&swortb* 

Pitches  her  tents  before  me  as  I  move, 

An  hourly  neighbour.     Paradise  and  groves 

Elysian,  Fortunate  Fields — like  those  of  old 

Sought  in  the  Atlantic  Main — why  should  they  be 

A  history  only  of  departed  things, 

Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was  ? 

For  the  discerning  intellect  of  Man, 

When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 

In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 

A  simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 

...    I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  arrives, 

Would  chant  in  lonely  peace,  the  spousal  verse 

Of  this  great  consummation  : — and  by  words 

Which  speak  of  nothing  more  than  what  we  are, 

Would  I  arouse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep 

Of  Death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 

To  noble  raptures  ;  while  my  voice  proclaims 

How  exquisitely  the  individual  Mind 

(And  the  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  less 

Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  World 

Is  fitted  : — and  how  exquisitely  too — 

Theme  this  but  little  heard  of  among  men — 

The  external  World  is  fitted  to  the  Mind  ; 

And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 

Can  it  be  called)  which  they  with  blended  might 

Accomplish  : — this  is  our  high  argument. 

Such  grateful  haunts  foregoing,  if  I  oft 
Must  turn  elsewhere — to  travel  near  the  tribes 
And  fellowships  of  men,  and  see  ill  sights 
Of  maddening  passions  mutually  inflamed  ; 
Must  hear  Humanity  in  fields  and  groves 
Pipe  solitary  anguish  ;  or  must  hang 
Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 
Of  sorrow,  barricadoed  evermore 
Within  the  walls  of  cities  ;  may  these  sounds 
Have  their  authentic  comment — that,  even  these 
Hearing,  I  be  not  downcast  or  forlorn  ! 

Descend,  prophetic  Spirit !  that  inspirest 
The  human  Soul  of  universal  earth, 
Dreaming  on  things  to  come  ;  and  dost  possess 
A  metropolitan  temple  in  the  hearts 
Of  mighty  Poets:  upon  me  bestow 
A  gift  of  genuine  insight ;  that  my  song 
With  star-like  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine, 
Shedding  benignant  influence,  and  secure, 
Itself  from  all  malevolent  effect 
Of  those  mutations  that  extend  their  sway 


•OJWlfam  Timortewortb.  203 

Throughout  the  nether  sphere  !     And  if  with  this 

I  mix  more  lowly  matter;  with  the  thing 

Contemplated,  describe  the  Mind  and  Man 

Contemplating  ;  and  who,  and  what  he  was, 

The  transitory  being  that  beheld  * 

This  vision  ;  when  and  where,  and  how  he  lived  ; 

Be  not  this  labour  useless.     If  such  theme 

May  sort  with  highest  objects,  then, — dread  Power, 

Whose  gracious  favour  is  the  primal  source 

Of  all  illumination, — may  my  life 

Express  the  image  of  a  better  time, 

More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  manners  ; — nurse 

My  heart  in  genuine  freedom  : — all  pure  thoughts 

Be  with  me  ; — so  shall  thy  unfailing  love 

Guide,  and  support,  and  cheer  me  to  the  end  ! 

—  The  Recluse. 
v. 

Here  might  I  pause  and  bend  in  reverence 
To  Nature,  and  the  power  of  human  minds, 
To  men  as  they  are  men  within  themselves. 
How  oft  high  service  is  performed  within 
When  all  the  external  man  is  rude  in  show, — 
Not  like  a  temple  rich  with  pomp  and  gold, 
But  a  mere  mountain  chapel,  that  protects 
Its  simple  worshippers  from  sun  and  shower. 
Of  these,  said  I,  shall  be  my  song, 

.   .   .    My  theme 
No  other  than  the  very  heart  of  man, 
As  found  among  the  best  of  those  who  live — 
Not  unexalted  by  religious  faith, 

Nor  uninformed  by  books,  good  books,  though  few, — 
In  Nature's  presence  :  thence  may  I  select 
Sorrow  that  is  not  sorrow,  but  delight  ; 
And  miserable  love,  that  is  not  pain 
To  hear  of,  for  the  glory  that  redounds 
Therefrom  to  human  kind,  and  what  we  are. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  XIII. 

VI. 

The  hemisphere 

Of  magic  fiction,  verse  of  mine  perchance 
May  never  tread  ;  but  scarcely  Spenser's  self 
Could  have  more  tranquil  visions  in  his  youth, 
Or  could  more  bright  appearances  create 
Of  human  forms. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  VI. 


204  William  morfcewortb* 


VII. 


Thus  from  a  very  early  age 

My  thoughts  by  slow  gradations  had  been  drawn 

To  human  kind,  and  to  the  good  and  ill 

Of  human  life :  Nature  had  led  me  on. 

—  The  Prelude.    Book  VIII. 


VIII. 

FIRST  PERCEPTION  OF  WORDSWORTH'S  MISSION. 

...   I  had  passed 
The  night  in  dancing,  gaiety,  and  mirth.   .  .   Ere  we 

retired 
The  cock  had  crowed,  and  now  the  eastern  sky 
Was  kindling,  not  unseen,  from  humble  copse 
And  open  field,  through  which  the  pathway  wound, 
And  homeward  led  my  steps.     Magnificent 
The  morning  rose,  in  memorable  pomp, 
Glorious  as  e'er  I  had  beheld, — in  front 
The  sea  lay  laughing  at  a  distance  ;  near 
The  solid  mountains  shone,  bright  as  the  clouds, 
Grain-tinctured,  drenched  in  empyrean  light ; 
And  in  the  meadows  and  the  lower  grounds 
Was  all  the  sweetness  of  a  common  dawn — 
Dews,  vapours,  and  the  melody  of  birds, 
And  labourers  going  forth  to  till  the  fields. 
.   .   To  the  brim 

My  heart  was  full ;  I  made  no  vows,  but  vows 
Were  then  made  for  me ;  bond  unknown  to  me 
Was  given,  that  I  should  be,  else  sinning  greatly, 
A  dedicated  Spirit.     On  I  walked 
In  thankful  blessedness  which  yet  survives. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  I V. 


IX. 

What  want  we  ?     Have  we  not  perpetual  streams, 
Warm  woods  and  sunny  hills,  and  fresh  green  fields, 
And  mountains  not  less  green,  and  flocks  and  herds, 
And  thickets  full  of  songsters,  and  the  voice 
Of  lordly  birds,  and  unexpected  sound 
Heard  now  and  then  from  morn  to  latest  eve, 


IKHilliam  TKHorfcswortb.  2°5 

Admonishing  the  man  who  walks  below 

Of  solitude  and  silence  in  the  sky  ? 

These  have  we,  and  a  thousand  nooks  of  earth 

Have  also  these,  but  nowhere  else  is  found, 

Nowhere  (or  is  it  fancy  ?)  can  be  found 

The  one  sensation  that  is  here  ;  'tis  here, 

Here  as  it  found  its  way  into  my  heart 

In  childhood,  here  as  it  abides  by  day, 

By  night,  here  only;  or  in  chosen  minds 

That  take  it  with  them  hence,  where'er  they  go. 

— Tis,  but  I  cannot  name  it — 'tis  the  sense 

Of  majesty,  and  beauty,  and  repose, 

A  blended  holiness  of  earth  and  sky, 

Something  that  makes  this  individual  spot, 

A  termination  and  a  last  retreat, 

A  centre,  come  from  wheresoe'er  you  will, 

A  whole  without  dependence  or  defect, 

Made  for  itself  and  happy  in  itself, 

Perfect  contentment,  Unity  entire. 

—  The  Recluse. 


(I  HAVE) 
Sate  among  the  woods 
Alone  upon  some  jutting  eminence, 
At  the  first  gleam  of  dawn-light,  when  the  Vale, 
Yet  slumbering,  lay  in  utter  solitude. 
How  shall  I  seek  the  origin?  where  find 
Faith  in  the  marvellous  things  which  then  I  felt  ? 
Oft  in  these  moments  such  a  holy  calm 
Would  overspread  my  soul,  that  bodily  eyes 
Were  utterly  forgotten,  and  what  I  saw 
Appeared  like  something  in  myself — a  dream, 
A  prospect  in  the  mind. 

— Prelude.     Book  IL 


Of  that  external  scene  which  round  me  lay 
Little,  in  this  abstraction,  did  I  see; 
Remembered  less;  but  I  had  inward  hopes 
And  swellings  of  the  spirit ;  was  rapt  and  soothed ; 
Conversed  with  promises,  had  glimmering  views 
How  life  pervades  the  undecaying  mind  ; 
How  the  immortal  soul  with  God-like  power 
Informs,  creates,  and  thaws  the  deepest  sleep 


2°6  TlUUlltam  HWor&gwortb. 

That  time  can  lay  upon  her;  how  on  earth, 
Man,  if  he  do  but  live  within  the  light 
Of  high  endeavours,  daily  spreads  abroad 
His  being,  armed  with  strength  that  cannot  fail. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  I V. 

XI. 

...   (I)  would  speak 
Of  that  interminable  building  reared 
By  observation  of  affinities 
In  objects  where  no  brotherhood  exists 
To  passive  minds.    .    . 
To  inorganic  natures  were  transferred 
My  own  enjoyments  ;  or  the  power  of  truth 
Coming  in  revelation,  did  converse 
With  things  that  really  are;  I,  at  this  time, 
Saw  blessings  spread  around  me  like  a  sea. 
Thus,  while  the  days  flew  by,  and  years  passed  on, 
From  Nature  and  her  overflowing  soul 
I  had  received  so  much,  that  all  my  thoughts 
Were  steeped  in  feeling  ;  I  was  only  then 
Contented,  when  with  bliss  ineffable 
I  felt  the  sentiments  of  Being  spread 
O'er  all  that  moves  and  all  that  seemeth  still ; 
O'er  all  that,  lost  beyond  the  reach  of  thought 
And  human  knowledge,  to  the  human  eye 
Invisible,  yet  liveth  to  the  heart. 

—  The  Prelude.    Book  II. 

XII. 

I  FELT 
What  independent  solaces  were  mine, 
To  mitigate  the  injurious  sway  of  place 
Or  circumstance.    .    . 

As  if  awakened,  summoned,  roused,  constrained, 
I  looked  for  universal  things  ;  perused 
The  common  countenance  of  earth  and  sky : 
Earth  nowhere  unembellished  by  some  trace 
Of  that  first  Paradise  whence  man  was  driven  ; 
And  sky,  whose  beauty  and  bounty  are  expressed 
By  the  proud  name  she  bears — the  name  of  Heaven. 
I  called  on  both  to  teach  me  what  they  might ; 
Or  turning  the  mind  in  upon  herself, 
Pored,  watched,  expected,  listened,  spread  my  thoughts, 

.  .  .  Felt 
Incumbencies  more  awful,  visitings 


William  IKflorDewortb.  207 

Of  the  Upholder  of  the  tranquil  soul, 
That  tolerates  the  indignities  of  Time, 
And  from  the  centre  of  Eternity 
All  finite  motions  overruling,  lives 
In  glory  immutable. 

...  I  was  mounting  now 
To  such  community  with  highest  truth  .  .  . 
To  every  natural  form,  rock,  fruits,  or  flower, 
Even  the  loose  stones  that  cover  the  high-way 
I  gave  a  moral  life  ;  I  saw  them  feel 
Or  linked  them  to  some  feeling  :  the  great  mass 
Lay  bedded  in  a  quickening  soul,  and  all 
That  I  beheld  respired  with  inward  meaning. 
Add  that  vvhate'er  of  Terror  or  of  Love 
Or  Beauty,  Nature's  daily  face  put  on 
From  transitory  passion,  unto  this 
I  was  as  sensitive  as  waters  are 
To  the  sky's  influence  in  a  kindred  mood 
Of  passion  :  was  obedient  as  a  lute 
That  waits  upon  the  touches  of  the  wind. 
Unknown,  unthought  of,  yet  I  was  most  rich — 
I  had  a  world  about  me — 'twas  my  own  ; 
I  made  it,  for  it  only  lived  to  me, 
And  to  the  God  who  sees  into  the  heart. 

—  The  Prelude.    Book  III. 


Call  ye  these  appearances — 
Which  I  beheld  of  shepherds  in  my  youth, 
This  sanctity  of  nature  given  to  man — 
A  shadow,  a  delusion,  ye  who  pore 
On  the  dead  letter,  miss  the  spirit  of  things  ; 
Whose  truth  is  not  a  motion  or  a  shape 
Instinct  with  vital  functions,  but  a  block 
Or  waxen  image  which  yourselves  have  made, 
And  ye  adore  ! 

—  The  Prelude.    Book  VIII. 

XIV. 

Were  I  grossly  destitute  of  all 

Those  human  sentiments  that  make  this  earth 

So  dear,  if  I  should  fail  with  grateful  voice 

To  speak  of  you,  ye  mountains,  and  ye  lakes 

And  sounding  cataracts,  ye  mists  and  winds 

That  dwell  among  the  hills  where  I  was  born.  .  . 


2°8  William  TOorDewortb. 

If  in  my  youth  I  have  been  pure  of  heart, 

If,  mingling  with  the  world,  I  am  content 

With  my  own  modest  pleasures,  and  have  lived 

With  God  and  Nature  communing — 

The  gift  is  yours, 

Ye  winds  and  sounding  cataracts  !  'tis  yours, 

Ye  mountains  !  thine,  O  Nature  !     Thou  hast  fed 

My  lofty  speculations  ;  and  in  thee 

For  this  uneasy  heart  of  ours,  I  find 

A  never-failing  principle  of  joy 

And  purest  passion. 

—  The  Prelude,     Book  II. 

xv. 

What  we  have  loved, 
Others  will  love,  and  we  will  teach  them  how ; 
Instruct  them  how  the  mind  of  man  becomes 
A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  than  the  earth 
On  which  he  dwells,  above  this  frame  of  things 
(Which,  'mid  all  revolution  in  the  hopes 
And  fears  of  men,  doth  still  remain  unchanged) 
In  beauty  exalted,  as  it  is  itself 
Of  quality  and  fabric  more  divine. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  XI V. 


THE    LUCY    POEMS. 

WRITTEN   IN   GERMANY. 


Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known  ; 

And  I  will  dare  to  tell, 
But  in  the  lover's  ear  alone, 

What  once  to  me  befell. 

When  she  I  loved  was  strong  and  gay, 

And  like  a  rose  in  June, 
I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way, 

Beneath  the  evening  moon. 

Upon  the  moon  I  fixed  my  eye 

All  over  the  wide  lea  ; 
My  horse  trudged  on,  and  we  drew  nigh 

Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 


TDGUUiam  TiXHovfcewortb.  209 

And  now  we  reached  the  orchard  plot ; 

And  as  we  climbed  the  hill, 
Towards  the  roof  of  Lucy's  cot 

The  moon  descended  still. 

In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept, 

Kind  Nature's  gentlest  boon  ! 
And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I  kept 

On  the  descending  moon. 

My  horse  moved  on  ;  hoof  after  hoof 

He  raised  and  never  stopped  ; 
When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof 

At  once  the  bright  moon  dropped. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 

Into  a  lover's  head  ! 
"  O  mercy  !  "  to  myself  I  cried, 
"  If  Lucy  should  be  dead  ! " 

1799. 
II. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love  : 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 


I799- 


III. 

I  travelled  among  unknown  men, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea ; 
Nor,  England  !  did  I  know  till  then 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

'Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream  ! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time  ;  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 


TOllfam  Mortewortb. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire  ; 
And  she  I  cherished  turned  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed, 
The  bovvers  where  Lucy  played  ; 

And  thine  is  too  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyed. 

1799. 

IV. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  sard,  "  A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown  : 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take  : 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  ;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn, 
That,  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn, 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs  : 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute,  insensate  things. 

"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
E'en  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 


•UllUltam  TKaorfcewortb. 

"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell  : 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


1799- 


v. 


A  SLUMBER  did  my  spirit  seal  ; 

I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks  and  stones  and  trees. 

1799. 


SOME    POEMS     RELATING    TO 
MRS.    WORDSWORTH. 


A  FAREWELL. 

COMPOSED   IN  THE  YEAR    1802,    BEFORE  THE   MARRIAGE  OF 
WORDSWORTH. 

Farewell,  thou  little  nook  of  mountain-ground, 

Thou  rocky  corner  in  the  lowest  stair 
Of  that  magnificent  temple  which  doth  bound 

One  side  of  our  whole  vale  with  grandeur  rare  ; 

Sweet  garden-orchard,  eminently  fair, 
The  loveliest  spot  that  man  hath  ever  found, 

Farewell  !  we  leave  thee  to  Heaven's  peaceful  care, 
Thee,  and  the  cottage  which  thou  dost  surround. 


railfam  IKHorfcswortb. 

Our  boat  is  safely  anchored  by  the  shore, 

And  there  will  safely  ride  when  we  are  gone  : 
The  flowering  shrubs  that  deck  our  humble  door 

Will  prosper,  though  untended  and  alone. 

Fields,  goods,  and  far-off  chattels  we  have  none: 
These  narrow  bounds  contain  our  private  store 

Of  things  earth  makes,  and  sun  doth  shine  upon  ; 
Here  are  they  in  our  sight — we  have  no  more. 

Sunshine  and  shower  be  with  you,  bud  and  bell ! 

For  two  months  now  in  vain  we  shall  be  sought ; 
We  leave  you  here  in  solitude  to  dwell 

With  these  our  latest  gifts  of  tender  thought  ; 

Thou,  like  the  morning,  in  thy  saffron  coat, 
Bright  gowan,  and  marsh-marigold,  farewell ! 

Whom  from  the  borders  of  the  lake  we  brought, 
And  placed  together,  near  our  rocky  well. 

We  go  for  one  to  whom  ye  will  be  dear ; 

And  she  will  prize  this  bower,  this  Indian  shed, 
Our  own  contrivance,  building  without  peer! 

A  gentle  maid,  whose  heart  is  lowly  bred, 

Whose  pleasures  are  in  wild  fields  gathered 
With  joyousness  and  with  a  thoughtful  cheer 

Will  come  to  you,  to  you  herself  will  wed, 
And  love  the  blessed  life  that  we  lead  here. 


Dear  spot !  which  we  have  watched  with  tender  heed, 
Bringing  thee  chosen  plants  and  blossoms  blown 

Among  the  distant  mountains,  flower  and  weed, 
Which  thou  hast  taken  to  thee  as  thy  own, 
Making  all  kindness  registered  and  known  ; 

Thou  for  our  sakes,  though  Nature's  child  indeed, 
Fair  in  thyself  and  beautiful  alone, 

Hast  taken  gifts  which  thou  dost  little  need. 

And  O  most  constant  yet  most  fickle  place, 

That  hast  thy  wayward  moods,  as  thou  dost  show 

To  them  who  look  not  daily  on  thy  face; 

Who,  being  loved,  in  love  no  bounds  dost  know, 
And  sayest,  when  we  forsake  thee,  "  Let  them  go ! " 

Thou  easy-hearted  thing,  with  thy  wild  race 
Of  weeds  and  flowers,  till  we  return  be  slow, 

And  travel  with  the  year  at  a  soft  pace. 


INUlUam  MorDswortb.  213 

Help  us  to  tell  her  tales  of  years  gone  by, 

And  this  sweet  spring,  the  best  beloved  and  best ; 
Joy  will  be  flown  in  its  mortality; 

Something  must  stay  to  tell  us  of  the  rest. 

Here,  thronged  with  primroses,  the  steep  rock's  breast 
Glittered  at  evening  like  a  starry  sky; 

And  in  this  bush  our  sparrow  built  her  nest, 
Of  which  I  sang  one  song  that  will  not  die. 

O  happy  garden  !  whose  seclusion  deep 

Hath  been  so  friendly  to  industrious  hours; 

And  to  soft  slumbers  that  did  gently  steep 

Our  spirits,  carrying  with  them  dreams  of  flowers, 
And  wild  notes  warbled  among  leafy  bowers; 

Two  burning  months  let  summer  overleap, 
And,  coming  back  with  her  who  will  be  ours, 

Into  thy  bosom  we  again  shall  creep. 

1802. 


II. 

'SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT." 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament. 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn — 

A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 


2i4  TOIUam  IKHorfcswortb, 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 

And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


1804. 


III. 


Thereafter  came 
One.   .   . 

She  came,  no  more  a  phantom  to  adorn 
A  moment,  but  an  inmate  of  the  heart, 
And  yet  a  spirit,  there  for  me  enshrined 
To  penetrate  the  lofty  and  the  low  ; 
Even  as  one  essence  of  pervading  light 
Shines,  in  the  brightest  of  ten  thousand  stars. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  XI V. 

IV. 

By  her  exulting  outside  look  of  youth 
And  placid  under-countenance,  first  endeared ; 
That  other  spirit,  Coleridge  !  who  is  now 
So  near  to  us,  that  meek  confiding  heart, 
So  reverenced  by  us  both. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  VI. 


O  DEARER  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear, 
Full  oft  our  human  foresight  I  deplore  ; 

Trembling,  through  my  unworthiness,  with  fear 

That  friends,  by  death  disjoined,  may  meet  no  more  ! 

Misgivings,  hard  to  vanquish  or  control, 

Mix  with  the  day  and  cross  the  hour  of  rest ; 

While  all  the  future,  for  thy  purer  soul, 
With  "  sober  certainities  "  of  love  is  blest. 

If  a  faint  sigh,  not  meant  for  human  ear, 

Tell  that  these  words  thy  humbleness  offend, 

Cherish  me  still— else  faltering  in  the  rear 
Of  a  steep  march,  uphold  me  to  the  end. 


TWUlUam  TOorDswortb.  215 

Peace  settles  where  the  intellect  is  meek, 

And  love  is  dutiful  in  thought  and  deed  ; 
Through  thee  communion  with  that  love  I  seek; 

The  faith  Heaven  strengthens  where  he  moulds  the  creed. 

1824. 


SOME  POEMS  RELATING  TO  DOROTHY 
•  WORDSWORTH. 


[See  also  <l  Tinier n  Abbey."] 


CHOICE  OF  THE  HOME  AT  GRASMERE. 

Can  the  choice  mislead, 
That  made  the  calmest,  fairest  spot  of  earth 
With  all  its  unappropriated  good 
My  own  ;  and  not  mine  only,  for  with  me 
Entrenched,  say  rather  peacefully  embowered 
Under  yon  orchard,  in  yon  humble  cot, 
A  younger  Orphan  of  a  home  extinct, 
The  only  daughter  of  my  Parents  dwells. 

Stern  was  the  face  of  Nature  :  we  rejoiced 

In  that  stern  countenance,  for  our  souls  thence  drew 

A  feeling  of  their  strength.     The  naked  trees, 

The  icy  brooks,  as  on  we  passed,  appeared 

To  question  us.     "  Whence  come  ye,  to  what  end  ?  " 

They  seemed  to  say.    "  What  would  ye,"  said  the  shower, 

"  Wild  wanderers,  whither  through  my  dark  domain  ?  " 

The  sunbeam  said  "  Be  happy."     When  this  vale 

We  entered,  bright  and  solemn  was  the  sky 

That  faced  us  with  a  passionate  welcoming, 

And  led  us  to  our  threshold. 

—  The  Recluse. 


Mine  eyes  did  ne'er 
Fix  on  a  lovely  object,  nor  my  mind 
Take  pleasure  in  the  midst  of  happy  thoughts 
But  either  She,  who  now  I  have,  who  now 
Divides  with  me  this  loved  abode,  was  there 
Or  not  far  off.     Where'er  my  footsteps  turned, 


216  tKJUtlfam  timorfcswortb* 

Her  voice  was  like  a  hidden  Bird  that  sang, 
The  thought  of  her  was  like  a  flash  of  light, 
Or  an  unseen  companionship,  a  breath 
Of  fragrance  independent  of  the  wind. 

—  The  Recluse. 


Child  of  my  parents  !    Sister  of  my  soul ! 

Thanks  in  sincerest  verse  have  been  elsewhere 

Poured  out  for  all  the  early  tenderness 

Which  I  from  thee  imbibed  :  and  'tis  most  true 

That  later  seasons  owed  to  thee  no  less. 

For  spite  of  thy  sweet  influence 

...    1  too  exclusively  esteemed  that  love 

And  sought  that  beauty,  which,  as  Milton  sings, 

Hath  terror  in  it.     Thou  didst  soften  down 

This  oversternness,  but  for  thee,  dear  friend, 

My  soul,  too  reckless  of  mild  grace,  had  stood 

In  her  original  self  too  confident, 

Retained  too  long  a  countenance  severe  ; 

A  rock  with  torrents  roaring,  with  the  clouds 

Familiar,  and  a  favourite  of  the  stars  : 

But  thou  didst  plant  its  crevices  with  flowers, 

Hang  it  with  shrubs  that  twinkle  in  the  breeze, 

And  teach  the  little  birds  to  build  their  nests 

And  warble  in  its  chambers.     At  a  time 

When  Nature,  destined  to  remain  so  long 

Foremost  in  my  affections,  had  fallen  back 

Into  a  second  place,  pleased  to  become 

A  handmaid  to  a  nobler  than  herself, 

When  every  day  brought  with  it  some  new  sense 

Of  exquisite  regard  for  common  things, 

And  all  the  earth  was  budding  with  these  gifts 

Of  more  refined  humanity,  thy  breath, 

Dear  Sister!  was  a  kind  of  gentle  Spring 

That  went  before  my  steps. 

—  The  Prelude.    Book  XI V. 

IV. 
{From  "The  Sparrow's  Nest") 

THE  blessing  of  my  later  years 

Was  with  me  when  a  boy  : 
She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears ; 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears  : 
A  heart  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears  ; 

And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy.  1801. 


TOWiam  TOor&swortb.  217 

v. 

I  was  blest 
Between  these  sundry  wanderings  with  a  joy 
Above  all  joys,  that  seemed  another  morn 
Risen  on  midnoon  ;  blest  with  the  presence,  friend, 
Of  that  sole  sister,  her  who  hath  been  long 
Dear  to  thee  also,  thy  true  friend  and  mine, 
Now  after  separation  desolate 
Restored  to  me — such  absence  that  she  seemed 
A  gift  then  first  bestowed. 
.    .    .    Side  by  side — we  looked  forth 
And  gathered  with  one  mind  a  rich  reward 
From  the  far  stretching  landscape,  by  the  light 
Of  morning  beautified,  or  purple  eve.  . 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  VI. 


VI. 

SUCH  thralldom  of  the  sense 

Seems  hard  to  shun.     And  yet  I  knew  a  maid, 

A  young  enthusiast  who  escaped  these  bonds  ;  .  .  . 

Birds  in  the  bower,  and  lambs  in  the  green  field, 

Could  they  have  known  her,  would  have  loved  ; 

methought 
Her  very  presence  such  a  sweetness  breathed, 
The  flowers,  and  trees,  and  even  the  silent  hills 
And  everything  she  looked  on  should  have  had 
An  intimation  how  she  bore  herself 
Towards  them  and  to  all  creatures, — God  delights 
In  such  a  being;  for  her  common  thoughts 
Are  piety,  her  life  is  gratitude. 

—  The  Prelude.     Book  XII 

VII. 

TO  MY  SISTER. 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March  : 

Each  minute  sweeter  than  before, 
The  redbreast  sings  from  the  tall  larch 

That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air, 

Which  seems  a  sense  of  joy  to  yield 

To  the  bare  trees  and  mountains  bare, 
And  grass  in  the  green  field. 


2i 8  William  WorDswortb. 

My  sister  !  ('tis  a  wish  of  mine) 

Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done, 

Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign  ; 
Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you ;  and  pray 
Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress  ; 

And  bring  no  book  ;  for  this  one  day 
We'll  give  to  idleness. 

No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 

Our  living  calendar : 
We  from  to-day,  my  friend,  will  date 

The  opening  of  the  year. 

Love,  now  a  universal  birth, 

From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 
From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth  : 

— It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 

One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 

Than  years  of  toiling  reason  : 
Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 

The  spirit  of  the  season. 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make, 

Which  they  shall  long  obey  ; 
We  for  the  year  to  come  will  take 

Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 

About,  below,  above, 
We'll  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls  : 

They  shall  be  tuned  to  love. 

Then  come,  my  sister  !  come,  I  pray 

With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress ; 

And  bring  no  book  ;  for  this  one  day 
We'll  give  to  idleness.  179$. 


VIII. 

TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

Stay  near  me  ;  do  not  take  thy  flight ! 
A  little  longer  stay  in  sight ! 
Much  converse  do  I  find  in  thee, 
Historian  of  my  infancy! 


Mtlliam  TOortewortb, 

Float  near  me  ;  do  not  yet  depart ! 

Dead  times  revive  in  thee. 
Thou  bring'st,  gay  creature  as  thou  art ! 
A  solemn  image  to  my  heart — 

My  father's  fantily ! 

Oh !  pleasant,  pleasant  were  the  days, 
The  time  when,  in  our  childish  plays, 
My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 
Together  chased  the  butterfly  ! 

1802. 
IX. 

TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 

I've  watched  you  now  a  full  half  hour 
Self-poised  upon  that  yellow  flower; 
And,  little  butterfly  !  indeed 
I  know  not  if  you  sleep  or  feed. 
How  motionless  ! — not  frozen  seas 

More  motionless  !  and  then 
What  joy  awaits  you  when  the  breeze 
Hath  found  you  out  among  the  trees, 

And  calls  you  forth  again  ! 

This  plot  of  orchard-ground  is  ours; 
My  trees  they  are,  my  sister's  flowers. 
Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary; 
Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary ! 
Come  often  to  us;  fear  no  wrong; 

Sit  near  us  on  the  bough  ! 
We'll  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song; 
And  summer  days,  when  we  were  young; 
Sweet  childish  days,  that  were  as  long 

As  twenty  days  are  now. 

•  1802. 
x. 

NUTTING. 

It  seems  a  day 
(I  speak  of  one  from  many  singled  out) 
One  of  those  heavenly  days  that  cannot  die; 
When,  in  the  eagerness  of  boyish  hope 
I  left  our  cottage  threshold,  sallying  forth 
With  a  huge  wallet  o'er  my  shoulders  slung, 
A  nutting-crook  in  hand  :  and  turn'd  my  steps 
Towards  some  far  distant  wood,  a  figure  quaint, 
Trick'd  out  in  proud  disguise  of  cast-off  weeds 


William  TlClorfcswortb, 

Which  for  that  service  had  been  husbanded, 

By  exhortation  of  my  frugal  dame — 

Motley  accoutrement;  of  power  to  smile 

At  thorns,  and  brakes,  and  brambles,— and  in  truth, 

More  ragged  than  need  Was  !     O'er  pathless  rocks, 

Through  beds  of  matted  fern  and  tangled  thickets, 

Forcing  my  way,  I  came  to  one  dear  nook 

Un visited,  where  not  a  broken  bough 

Droop'd  with  its  wither'd  leaves,  ungracious  sign 

Of  devastation,  but  the  hazels  rose 

Tall  and  erect,  with  tempting  clusters  hung, 

A  virgin  scene!     A  little  while  I  stood, 

Breathing  with  such  suppression  of  the  heart 

As  joy  delights  in  ;  and,  with  wise  restraint 

Voluptuous,  fearless  of  a  rival,  eyed 

The  banquet  ; — or  beneath  the  trees  I  sate 

Among  the  flowers,  and  with  the  flowers  I  play'd  ; 

A  temper  known  to  those,  who,  after  long 

And  weary  expectation,  have  been  bless'd 

With  sudden  happiness  beyond  all  hope. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  bower  beneath  whose  leaves 

The  violets  of  five  seasons  reappear 

And  fade,  unseen  by  any  human  eye; 

Where  fairy  water-breaks  do  murmur  on 

Forever; — and  I  saw  the  sparkling  foam, 

And — with  my  cheek  on  one  of  those  green  stones 

That,  fleeced  with  moss,  beneath  the  shady  trees, 

Lay  round  me,  scatter'd  like  a  flock  of  sheep — 

I  heard  the  murmur  and  the  murmuring  sound, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to  pay 

Tribute  to  ease ;  and,  of  its  joy  secure, 

The  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 

Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones, 

And  on  the  vacant  air.     Then  up  I  rose, 

And  dragg'd  to  earth  both  branch  and  bough,  with  crash 

And  merciless  ravage ;  and  the  shady  nook 

Of  hazels,  and  the  green  and  moss  bower, 

Deform'd  and  sullied,  patiently  gave  up 

Their  quiet  being;  and,  unless  I  now 

Confound  my  present  feelings  with  the  past, 

Even  then,  when  from  the  bower  I  turn'd  away 

Exulting  rich  beyond  the  wealth  of  kings, 

I  felt  a  sense  of  pain  when  I  beheld 

The  silent  trees  and  the  intruding  sky. 

Then,  dearest  maiden  !  move  along  these  shades 

In  gentleness  of  heart ;  with  gentle  hand 

Touch — for  there  is  a  spirit  in  the  woods,  1799« 


TOHfam  IWlor&svvortb. 


LINES. 

COMPOSED    A    FEW   MILES   ABOVE   TINTERN    ABBEY,   ON 
REVISITING   THE   BANKS   OF   THE   WYE. 

["  No  poem  of  mine,"  says  Wordsworth,  lk  was  composed  under  circumstances 
more  pleasant  for  me  to  remember  than  this.  I  began  it  after  leaving  Tintern, 
afier  crossing  the  Wye,  and  concluded  it  just  as  I  was  entering  Bristol  in  the 
evening,  after  a  ramble  of  four  or  five  days  with  my  sister."] 

Five  years  have  pass'd  ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain  springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur.* — Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard  tufts 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once  again  I  see 

These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  ;  these  pastoral  farms 

Green  to  the  very  door  :  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees  ! 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem, 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 

Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  : — feelings  too 
Of  unremember'd  pleasure  :  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremember'd  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 

*  The  river  is  not  affected  by  the  tides  a  few  miles  above  Tintern. 


TOUilUam  Morfcswortb. 

To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 

Of  aspect  more  sublime  ;  that  blessed  mood, 

In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 

In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight, 

Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 

Is  lightened  ; — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 

Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 

And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 

Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul  : 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft — 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight ;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye  !  thou  vvand'rer  through  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills  ;  when  like  a  roe, 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led  :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  ;  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 


TWUlHam  llMorDswortb.  223 

By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  thu  eye. — That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  morn  nor  murmur  ;  other  gifts 

Have  followed  ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth  ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  : 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 

And  mountains  ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create, 

And  what  perceive ;  well-pleased  to  recognise 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou  art  with  me,  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ;  thou,  my  dearest  friend, 
My  dear,  dear  friend,  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 
May  1  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  clear  sister  !     And  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her :  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  ;  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 


224  TKllilliam  TKllorOswortb. 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee  :  and,  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstacies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies  ;  oh  !  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 

And  these  my  exhortations  !    Nor,  perchance, — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together  ;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  nature,  hither  came. 

Unwearied  in  that  service ;  rather  say 

With  warmer  love, — oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake. 

1798. 


ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

(From  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood). 
I. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; 


4  THIS   SWEET   MAY    MORNING." — Page  225. 


TKHilliam  IWortewortb.  225 

Turn  vvheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

III. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 

A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong. 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep  ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng; 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday. 
Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy  shep* 
herd  boy ! 

IV. 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
Oh,  evil  day !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  the  earth  itself  is  adorning 
This  sweet  May  morning, 


226  limwtam  TOor&swortb, 

And  the  children  are  culling  * 

On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers,  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm ! 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 

But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  1  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  ; 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 


Our  birch  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar ; 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  Godr  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


VI. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 


William  TOorfcswortb.  227 

VII. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pygmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly  learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival. 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral, 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song ; 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage  " 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 


VIII. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage  ;  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind — 

Mighty  prophet !  seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 


22%  William  Morfcewortb. 

Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 


IX. 

O  joy !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction — not,  indeed, 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast : 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  ; 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
t  And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


TlXIlilltant  IKflorDswortb.  229 


Then  sing,  ye  birds  !  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind, 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be, 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering, 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI. 

And  O,  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 

Think  not  of  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

I 803- 1 806. 


23°  WUUfani  Morfcswortb. 


COMPOSED    UPON    AN  EVENING    OF    EXTRAORDI- 
NARY SPLENDOUR  AND  BEAUTY. 

Had  this  effulgence  disappeared 

With  flying  haste,  I  might  have  sent, 

Among  the  speechless  clouds,  a  look 

Of  blank  astonishment; 

But  'tis  endued  with  power  to  stay, 

And  sanctify  one  closing  day, 

That  frail  Mortality  may  see — 

What  is  ?— ah  no,  but  what  can  be  ! 

Time  was  when  field  and  watery  cove 

With  modulated  echoes  rang, 

While  choirs  of  fervent  Angels  sang 

Their  vespers  in  the  grove  ; 

Or,  crowning,  star-like,  each  some  sovereign  height, 

Warbled,  for  heaven  above  and  earth  below, 

Strains  suitable  to  both.     Such  holy  rite, 

Methinks,  if  audibly  repeated  now 

From  hill  or  valley,  could  not  move 

Sublimer  transport,  purer  love, 

Than  doth  this  silent  spectacle — the  gleam 

The  shadow — and  the  peace  supreme ! 


No  sound  is  uttered, — but  a  deep 

And  solemn  harmony  pervades 

The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep, 

And  penetrates  the  glades. 

Far-distant  images  draw  nigh, 

Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 

Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues, 

Whatever  it  strikes,  with  gem-like  hues ! 

In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 

Herds  range  along  the  mountain  side ; 

And  glistening  antlers  are  descried  ; 

And  gilded  flocks  appear. 

Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpureal  Eve ! 

But  long  as  god-like  wish,  or  hope  divine, 

Informs  my  spirit,  ne'er  can  I  believe 

That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine  ! 

— From  worlds  not  quickened  by  the  sun 

A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won  ; 

An  intermingling  of  Heaven's  pomp  is  spread 

On  ground  which  British  shepherds  tread. 


TKHilliam  Tlfllorfcswortb,  231 

And,  if  there  be  whom  broken  ties 

Afflict,  or  injuries  assail, 

Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes 

Present  a  glorious  scale, 

Climbing  suffused  with  sunny  air, 

To  stop— no  record  hath  told  where  ! 

And  tempting  Fancy  to  ascend, 

And  with  immortal  Spirits  blend  ! 

— Wings  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play  ; 

But,  rooted  here,  I  stand  and  gaze 

On  those  bright  steps  that  heavenward  raise 

Their  practicable  way. 

Come  forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look  abroad, 

And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound  ! 

And  if  some  traveller,  weary  of  his  road, 

Hath  slept  since  noon-tide  on  the  grassy  ground, 

Ye  Genii !  to  his  covert  speed  ; 

And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 

As  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 

Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour  ! 

Such  hues  from  their  celestial  urn 

Were  wont  to  stream  before  mine  eye, 

Where'er  it  wandered  in  the  morn 

Of  blissful  infancy. 

This  glimpse  of  glory,  why  renewed  ? 

Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude  ; 

For,  if  a  vestige  of  those  gleams 

Survived,  'twas  only  in  my  dreams. 

Dread  Power  !  whom  peace  and  calmness  serve 

No  less  than  Nature's  threatening  voice, 

If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice, 

From  Thee  if  I  w7ould  swerve  ; 

Oh  !  let  thy  grace  remind  me  of  the  light 

Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored  ; 

Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking  sight 

Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored  ; 

My  soul,  though  yet  confined  to  earth, 

Rejoices  in  a  second  birth  ! 

— 'Tis  past,  the  visionary  splendour  fades  ; 

And  Night  approaches  with  her  shades. 

1818. 


232  TOillfam  tTClorfcswortb, 

FROM  THE  EXCURSION. 

i. 

DESCRIPTION  OF  MIST  OPENING  IN  THE  HILLS. 

With  their  freight  homeward  the  shepherds  moved 

Through  the  dull  mist,  I  following — when  a  step, 

A  single  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 

Of  the  blind  vapour,  opened  to  my  view 

Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 

By  waking  sense  or  by  the  dreaming  soul ! 

The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed, 

Was  of  a  mighty  city — boldly  say 

A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 

And  self-withdrawn  into  a  boundless  depth, 

Far  sinking  into  splendour — without  end  ! 

Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 

With  alabaster  domes  and  silver  spires : 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 

Uplifted  ;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright, 

In  avenues  disposed ;  there,  towers  begirt 

With  battlements,  that  on  their  restless  fronts 

Bore  stars— illumination  of  all  gems  ! 

By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 

Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 

Now  pacified  ;  on  them,  and  on  the  coves 

And  mountain  steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 

The  vapours  had  receded,  taking  there 

Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky  ! 

Oh,  'twas  an  unimaginable  sight ! 

Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks,  and  emerald  turf, 

Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sky, 

Confused,  commingled,  mutually  inflamed, 

Molten  together,  and  composing  thus, 

Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 

Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 

Fantastic  pomp  of  structure  without  name, 

In  fleecy  folds  voluminous,  enwrapp'd. 

Right  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appear'd 

Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a  throne 

Under  a  shining  canopy  of  state 

Stood  fixed  ;  and  fixed  resemblances  were  seen 

To  implements  of  ordinary  use, 

But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified  ; 

Such  as  by  Hebrew  Prophets  were  beheld 


William  Tiaiorfcswortb.  233 

In  vision— forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power, 

For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe. 

This  little  vale,  a  dwelling-place  of  man, 

Lay  low  beneath  my  feet ;  'twas  visible — 

I  saw  not,  but  I  felt,  that  it  was  there. 

That  which  I  saw  was  the  revealed  abode 

Of  spirits  in  beatitude  :  my  heart 

Swelled  in  my  breast.     "  I  have  been  dead,"  I  cried, 

"  And  now  I  live  !     Oh  !  wherefore  do  I  live  ?  " 

—Book  II. 


II. 

THE  SOUL'S  PERCEPTION. 

I  HAVE  seen 
A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell ; 
To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely  ;  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy  ;  for  from  within  were  heard 
Murmurings,  whereby  the  monitor  expressed 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 
Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  faith  ;  and  there  are  times, 
I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  ; 
Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power  ; 
And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitatio7i.     Here  you  stand, 
Adore  and  worship,  when  you  know  it  not  ; 
Pious  beyond  the  intention  of  your  thought, 
Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 
Yes,  you  have  felt,  and  may  not  cease  to  feel. 
The  estate  of  man  would  be  indeed  forlorn, 
If  false  conclusions  of  the  reasoning  power 
Made  the  eye  blind,  and  closed  the  passages 
Through  which  the  ear  converses  with  the  heart. 
Has  not  the  soul,  the  being  of  your  life, 
Received  a  shock  of  awful  consciousness, 
In  some  calm  season,  when  these  lofty  rocks 
At  night's  approach  bring  down  the  unclouded  sky 
To  rest  upon  their  circumambient  walls  ; 
A  temple  framing  of  dimensions  vast, 
And  yet  not  too  enormous  for  the  sound 


234  William  Worfcewortb. 

Of  human  anthems, — choral  song,  or  burst 
Sublime  of  instrumental  harmony, 
To  glorify  the  Eternal  !     What  if  these 
Did  never  break  the  stillness  that  prevails 
Here — if  the  solemn  nightingale  be  mute, 
And  the  soft  woodlark  here  did  never  chant 
Her  vespers — Nature  fails  not  to  provide 
Impulse  and  utterance.     The  whispering  air 
Sends  inspiration  from  the  shadowy  heights 
And  blind  recesses  of  the  caverned  rocks  ; 
The  little  rills,  and  waters  numberless, 
Inaudible  by  daylight,  blend  their  notes 
With  the  loud  streams  ;  and  often,  at  the  hour 
When  issue  forth  the  first  pale  stars,  is  heard, 
Within  the  circuit  of  this  fabric  huge, 
One  voice — the  solitary  raven,  flying 
Athwart  the  concave  of  the  dark-blue  dome, 
Unseen,  perchance  above  all  power  of  sight — 
An  iron  knell !  with  echoes  from  afar, 
Faint — and  still  fainter — as  the  cry,  with  which 
The  wanderer  accompanies  her  flight 
Through  the  calm  region,  fades  upon  the  ear, 
Diminishing  by  distance  till  it  seemed 
To  expire  ;  yet  from  the  abyss  is  caught  again, 
And  yet  again  recovered  ! 

—Book  IV. 


III. 

POWER  OF  THE  SOUL. 

Within  the  soul  a  faculty  abides, 
That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 
And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 
Contingencies  of  pomp  ;*and  serve  to  exalt 
Her  native  brightness.     As  the  ample  moon, 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a  summer  even 
Rising  behind  a  thick  and  lofty  grove, 
Burns  like  an  unconsuming  fire  of  light 
In  the  green  trees  ;  and,  kindling  on  all  sides 
Their  leafy  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a  substance  glorious  as  her  own, 
Yea,  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 
Capacious  and  serene.     Like  power  abides 
In  man's  celestial  spirit. 

— Book  IV. 


TKHUUam  TlMor&swortb.  235 


STRAY  LINES  FROM  THE  EXCURSION. 

The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine, 

Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  verse. 

— Book  I. 

The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise. 

— Book  I. 

The  mighty  orb  of  song, 
The  divine  Milton. 

—Book  I. 

The  good  die  first 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 

Burn  to  the  socket. 

—Book  I. 

This  dull  product  of  a  scoffer's  pen. 

—Book  II. 

Wisdom  is  ofttimes  nearer  when  we  stoop 
Than  when  we  soar. 

— Book  III. 

The  intellectual  power,  through  words  and  things 
Went  sounding  on,  a  dim  and  perilous  way. 

— Book  III. 

The  most  difficult  of  tasks  to  keep 

Heights  which  the  soul  is  competent  to  gain. 

—Book  IV. 

Persuasion  and  belief 

Had  ripened  into  faith,  and  faith  become 

A  passionate  intuition. 

—Book  IV. 

These  imaginative  heights,  that  yield 
Far-stretching  views  into  Eternity. 

— Book  IV. 

Ah  !  what  a  warning  for  a  thoughtless  man, 
Could  field  or  grove,  could  any  spot  of  earth, 
Show  to  his  eye  an  image  of  the  pangs 
Which  it  hath  witnessed, — render  back  an  echo 
Of  the  sad  steps  by  which  it  hath  been  trod. 

— Book  VI. 


236  *watlliam  TKnor&swortb, 

Deposited  upon  the  silent  shore 

Of  memory,  images  and  precious  thoughts 

That  shall  not  die,  and  cannot  be  destroyed. 

—Book  VII. 

A  man  he  seems  of  cheerful  yesterdays 
And  confident  to-morrows. 

—Book  VII. 

Not  for  these  sad  issues  was  man  created  ;  but  to  obey 

the  law 
Of  life  and  hope  and  action. 

—Book  IX. 

The  Being  moves 

In  beauty  through  the  world. 

—Book  IX. 

In  what  vivid  hues 

His  mind  gives  back  the  various  forms  of  things 

Caught  in  their  fairest,  happiest  attitude. 

—Book  IX. 

The  primal  duties  shine  aloft  like  stars  ; 
The  charities  that  soothe  and  heal  and  bless 
Are  scattered  at  the  feet  of  Man  like  flowers. 

—Book  IX. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR. 

Who  is  the  happy  warrior?     Who  is  he 
Whom  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 
— It  is  the  generous  spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought: 
Whose  high  endeavours  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care ; 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  pain, 
And  fear,  and  bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ;   - 
,  In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower ; 


William  TlGlorfcswortb.  237 

Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 

Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives; 

By  objects  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 

Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate; 

Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 

So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice ; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 

As  tempted  more  ;  more  able  to  endure, 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress ; 

Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

— Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason  ;  who  depends 

Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends  ; 

Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 

Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 

He  labours  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows  : 

— Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 

Rises  by  open  means  ;  and  there  will  stand 

On  honourable  terms,  or  else  retire, 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire ; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  ; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state  ; 

Whom  they  must  follow ;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all ; 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace  ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 

Is  happy  as  a  lover  ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  inspired  : 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need  : 

— He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  writh  a  sense 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 

Is  yet  a  soul  whose  master  bias  leans 

To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes  ; 

Sweet  images  !  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart :  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve  ; 


z&  TlCUUiam  TIMorDswortb. 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love  : — 
'Tis,  finally,  the  man,  who,  lifted  high, 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  nation's  eye, 
Or  left  unthought  of  in  obscurity — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not — 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one, 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won  ; 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  ; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 
For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead,  unprofitable  name — 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause  : 
This  is  the  happy  warrior  ;  this  is  he 
Whom  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 


1806. 


ODE   TO   DUTY. 

Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! 

O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe, 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 

Glad  hearts,  without  reproach  or  blot, 

Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not  : 

Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last  ! 

But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them   to 
stand  fast ! 


•rcawtam  TlSHorfcewortb.  239 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed, 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried — 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide — 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust ; 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought  : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires  ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires  ; 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 

Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  ; 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds; 

And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 

Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 

And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 

I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour: 

Oh  !  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give : 
And,  in  the  light  of  truth,  thy  bondman  let  me  live  ! 

1805. 


240  •rcnwiam  Wortewortb. 

ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 


[Suggested  by  a  picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  storm,  painted  by  Sir  George  Beau- 
>nt.] 

(  Written  after  the  death  of  Wordsworth's  brother  by  drowning?) 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  pile  ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee, 
I  saw  thee  every  day  :  and  all  the  while 
Thy  form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day 
Whene'er  I  look'd,  thy  image  still  was  there; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !    It  seemed  no  sleep, 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings  : 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah  !  then  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand, 
To  express  what  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam. 
The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream  ; 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  pile 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss : 

Thou  shouldst  have  seemed  a  treasure-house  divine 
Of  peaceful  years  :  a  chronicle  of  heaven  ; — 
Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  : 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 
Such  picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made  ; 
And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part ; 
A  faith,  a  trust,  that  could  not  be  betrayed. 


militant  TClor&ewortb.  241 

So  once  it  would  have  been  — 'tis  so  no  more  ; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control  ; 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing"  can  restore  ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanised  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been  : 
The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old  ; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  friend  !  who  would  have  been 

the  friend, 
If  he  had  lived,  of  him  whom  I  deplore, 
This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend, 
This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

Oh,  'tis  a  passionate  work  ! — yet  wise  and  well, 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here  ; 
That  hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear ! 

And  this  huge  castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 

Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time, 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  kind  ! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied  ;  for  'tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne  ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here. — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 


1805. 


LINES. 


[Composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  walk  one  evening,  after  a  stormy  day,  the 
author  having  just  read  in  a  newspaper  that  the  dissolution  of  Mr.  Fox  was  hourly 
expected.] 

Loud  is  the  Vale!— the  voice  is  up 

With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone, 

A  mighty  unison  of  streams  ! 
Of  all  her  voices,  one! 


242  TOlUam  TKHorfcewortb, 

Loud  is  the  Vale  ! — this  inland  depth 
In  peace  is  roaring  like  the  sea  : 

Yon  star  upon  the  mountain-top 
Is  listening  quietly. 

Sad  was  I,  even  to  pain  depresst, 

Importunate  and  heavy  load  ! 
The  Comforter  hath  found  me  here, 

Upon  this  lonely  road  ; 

And  many  thousands  now  are  sad — 
Wait  the  fulfilment  of  their  fear; 

For  he  must  die  who  is  their  stay, 
Their  glory  disappear. 

A  power  is  passing  from  the  earth 
To  breathless  Nature's  dark  abyss  ; 

And  when  the  mighty  pass  away, 
What  is  it  more  than  this — 

That  man,  who  is  from  God  sent  forth, 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return  ? — 

Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be  ; 
Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn  ? 

1806 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  SONNETS. 


SCORN  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 

Mindless  of  its  just  honours  ;  with  this  key 

Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the  melody 

Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound  ; 

A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound  ; 

With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 

The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 

Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 

His  visionary  brow  ;  a  glow-worm  lamp, 

It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery-land 

To  struggle  through  dark  ways  ;  and,  when  a  damp 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 

The  Thing  became  a  trumpet ;  whence  he  blew 

Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few  ! 

1827. 


11. 

Great  men  have  been  among  us  ;  hands  that  penned 

And  tongues  that  uttered  wisdom,  better  none: 

The  later  Sydney,  Marvel,  Harington, 

Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  Milton  friend, 

These  moralists  could  act  and  comprehend  : 

They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on  ; 

Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 

In  splendour  :  what  strength  was,  that  would  not  bend 

But  in  magnanimous  meekness.     France,  'tis  strange, 

Hath  brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we  had  then. 

Perpetual  emptiness  !  unceasing  change  ! 

No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 

No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road  ; 

But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men  ! 


1802. 


III. 


It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood 

Of  British  freedom,  which,  to  the  open  sea 

Of  the  world's  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 

Hath  flowed  "  with  pomp  of  waters  unwithstood  " — 

Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 

Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands, 

That  this  most  famous  Stream  in  bogs  and  sands 

Should  perish,  and  to  evil  and  to  good 

Be  lost  forever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 

Armoury  of  the  invincible  Knights  of  old  : 

We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 

That  Shakespeare  spake— the  faith  and  morals  hold 

Which  Milton  held. — In  everything  we  are  sprung 

Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 

1802. 

IV. 
COMPOSED   BY  THE  SEA-SIDE,   NEAR  CALAIS,   AUGUST,  1802. 

Fair  star  of  evening,  splendour  of  the  West, 
Star  of  my  country  !  on  the  horizon's  brink 
Thou  hangest,  stooping,  as  rnight  seem,  to  sink 
On  England's  bosom  ;  yet  well  pleased  to  rest, 
Meanwhile,  and  be  to  her  a  glorious  crest 
Conspicuous  to  the  nations.     Thou,  I  think, 
Shouldst  be  my  country's  emblem  ;  and  shouldst  wink, 
Bright  star  !  with  laughter  on  her  banners,  drest 


244  TKMllfam  Timorfcewortb* 

In  thy  fresh  beauty.     There  !  that  dusky  spot 
Beneath  thee,  it  is  England  ;  there  it  lies. 
Blessings  be  on  you  both  !  one  hope,  one  lot, 
One  life,  one  glory  !     I,  with  many  a  fear 
For  my  dear  country,  many  heart-felt  sighs, 
Among  men  who  do  not  love  her,  linger  here. 


1802. 


SEPTEMBER,    1802. 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood  ; 

And  saw,  while  sea  was  calm  and  air  was  clear, 

The  coast  of  France — the  coast  of  France  how  near! 

Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighbourhood. 

I  shrunk,  for  verily  the  barrier  flood 

Was  like  a  lake,  or  river  bright  and  fair, 

A  span  of  waters  ;  yet  what  power  is  there ! 

What  mightiness  for  evil  and  for  good  ! 

Even  so  doth  God  protect  us  if  we  be 

Virtuous  and  wise.     Winds  blow,  and  waters  roll, 

Strength  to  the  brave,  and  Power,  and  Deity, 

Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing  !     One  decree 

Spake  laws  to  them,  and  said  that  by  the  soul 

Only,  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and  free. 


1802. 


VI. 


WRITTEN   IN   LONDON,   SEPTEMBER,    l8o2. 

O  FRIEND  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show  :  mean  handiwork  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom  ! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 

In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest : 

The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best : 

No  grandeur  now,  in  nature  or  in  book, 

Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 

This  is  idolatry  ;  and  these  we  adore  : 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more  : 

The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 

Is  gone  ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 

And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

1802. 


TIKUlliam  TCHorOswortb,  245 

VII. 

LONDON,    1802. 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour; 

England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  : 

Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart  : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free  ; 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

1802. 

VIII. 

England  !  the  time  is  come  when  thou  shouldst  wean 

Thy  heart  from  its  emasculating  food  ; 

The  truth  should  now  be  better  understood  : 

Old  things  have  been  unsettled  ;  we  have  seen 

Fair  seed-time,  better  harvest  might  have  been 

But  for  thy  trespasses  ;  and,  at  this  day, 

If  for  Greece,  Egypt,  India,  Africa, 

Aught  good  were  destined,  thou  wouldst  step  between. 

England  1   all  nations  in  this  charge  agree ; 

But  worse,  more  ignorant  in  love  or  hate, 

Far — far  more  abject  is  thine  Enemy : 

Therefore  the  wise  pray  for  thee,  though  the  freight 

Of  thy  offences  be  a  heavy  weight : 

Oh,  grief !  that  earth's  best  hopes  rest  all  with  thee. 

1803. 

IX. 

THOUGHT  OF   A  BRITON   ON   THE  SUBJUGATION   OF 
SWITZERLAND. 

Two  voices  are  there ;  one  is  of  the  sea, 
One  of  the  mountains,  each  a  mighty  voice  : 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty  ! 
There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 


246  tNUUfam  IKHorbswortb* 

Thou  fought'st  against  him  ;  but  hast  vainly  striven 
Thou  from  the  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 
Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft  ; 
Then  cleave,  oh  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left ; 
For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 
That  mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 
And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 
And  neither  awful  voice  be  heard  by  thee  ! 


1807. 


X. 

TO  TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE. 


Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den  ; — 
Oh,  miserable  chieftain  !  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not ;  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow  : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and  skies  ; 
There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  :  thou  hast  great  allies  ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 


1802. 


XI. 
TO   B.   R.   HAYDON. 


HIGH  is  our  calling,  friend  !  creative  Art 
(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 
Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues) 
Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 
Though  sensitive  in  their  weakest  part, 
Heroically  fashioned — to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert 
And,  oh  !  when  Nature  sinks,  as  oft  she  may, 
Through  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure  distress. 
Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward, 
And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay, 
Brook  no  continuance  of  weak-mindedness  : — 
Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard  ! 

1815. 


William  TlOor&swortb,  247 


The  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
The  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn, 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  its  wreathed  horn. 


1806. 


XIII. 

COMPOSED   UPON   WESTMINSTER   BRIDGE. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  :  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky, 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill  ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 


1802. 


XIV. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea: 
Listen  !  the  mighty  being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 


248  *railfam  Tlfflorfcswortb, 

Dear  child  !  dear  girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear'st  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 
Thy  nature  therefore  is  not  less  divine  : 
Thou  liest  "  in  Abraham's  bosom  "  all  the  year; 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

1802. 


XV. 

The  shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said 
"  Bright  is  thy  veil,  O  moon,  as  thou  art  bright !" 
Forthwith,  that  little  cloud,  in  ether  spread, 
And  penetrated  all  with  tender  light, 
She  cast  away,  and  showed  her  fulgent  head 
Uncovered  ;  dazzling  the  beholder's  sight 
As  if  to  vindicate  her  beauty's  right, 
Her  beauty  thoughtlessly  disparaged. 
Meanwhile  that  veil,  removed  or  thrown  aside, 
Went  floating  from  her,  darkening  as  it  went ; 
And  a  huge  mass,  to  bury  or  to  hide, 
Approached  this  glory  of  the  firmament ; 
Who  meekly  yields,  and  is  obscured — content 
With  one  calm  triumph  of  a  modest  pride. 

1815. 

XVI. 

TO  THE  SUPREME  BEING. 

{From  Michael  Angelo.) 

The  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed, 

If  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I  pray  : 

My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay, 

Which  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed  : 

Of  good  and  pious  works  Thou  art  the  seed, 

Which  quickens  only  where  Thou  say'st  it  may, 

Unless  Thou  show  to  us  Thine  own  true  way, 

No  man  can  find  it:  Father!  Thou  must  lead. 

Do  Thou,  then,  breathe  those  thoughts  into  my  mind 

By  whicli  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred 

That  in  Thy  holy  footsteps  I  may  tread  ; 

T^he  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  Thou  unbind, 

That  I  may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  Thee, 

And  sound  Thy  praises  everlastingly. 

1804. 


"the  shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said, 
•bright  is  thy  veil.o  moon, as  thou  art  bright!'  " — Page24:S. 


TOUUfam  TOortewortb.  249 

XVII. 

MOST  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 

To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none 

While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 

Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon  ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 

The  work  of  fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 

Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse. 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way, 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 

The  mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 

Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

1833- 

XVIII. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  yon  ship  must  go  ? 

Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array ; 

As  vigorous  as  a  lark  at  break  of  day. 

Is  she  for  tropic  suns  or  polar  snow  ? 

What  boots  the  inquiry?     Neither  friend  nor  foe 

She  cares  for  ;  let  her  travel  where  she  may, 

She  finds  familiar  names,  a  beaten  way 

Ever  before  her,  and  a  wind  to  blow. 

Yet  still  I  ask,  what  haven  is  her  mark  ? 

And,  almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare 

(From  time  to  time,  like  pilgrims  here  and  there 

Crossing  the  waters),  doubt,  and  something  dark, 

Of  the  old  sea  some  reverential  fear 

Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  bark  ! 


1806. 


XIX. 


Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat 

Lingers,  but  Fancy  is  well  satisfied  ; 

With  keen-eyed  Hope,  with  Memory,  at  her  side. 

And  the  glad  Muse  at  liberty  to  note 

All  that  to  each  is  precious,  as  we  float 

Gently  along;  regardless  who  shall  chide 

If  the  heavens  smile,  and  leave  us  free  to  glide, 

Happy  Associates  breathing  air  remote 

From  trivial  cares.     But,  Fancy  and  the  Muse, 

Why  have  I  crowded  this  small  bark  with  you 


25°  William  TWortewortb. 

And  others  of  your  kind,  ideal  crew  ! 
While  here  sits  One,  whose  brightness  owes  its  hues 
To  flesh  and  blood  ;  no  Goddess  from  above, 
No  fleeting  Spirit,  but  my  own  true  Love  ? 

1827. 


XX. 

TO  SLEEP. 

A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky, 
By  turns  have  all  been  thought  of,  yet  I  lie 
Sleepless  ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees  ; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep,  by  any  stealth. 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away. 
Without  thee,  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  ! 

1806. 


XXI. 

"  I   WATCH,   AND   LONG  HAVE  WATCHED." 

I  watch,  and  long  have  watched,  with  calm  regret 

Yon  slowly  sinking  star — immortal  sire 

(So  might  he  seem)  of  all  the  glittering  quire  ! 

Blue  ether  still  surrounds  him — yet  and  yet ; 

But  now  the  horizon's  rocky  parapet 

Is  reached,  where,  forfeiting  his  blight  attire, 

He  burns — transmuted  to  a  dusky  fire — 

Then  pays  submissively  the  appointed  debt 

To  the  flying  moments,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

Angels  and  gods  !     We  struggle  with  our  fate, 

While  health,  power,  glory,  from  their  height  decline, 

Depressed  ;  and  then  extinguished  ;  and  our  state 

In  this,  how  different,  lost  Star,  from  thine, 

That  no  to-morrow  shall  our  beams  restore ! 

1819. 


William  TOortewortb.  251 


MUTABILITY. 

FROM  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb, 

And  sink  from  high  to  low,  along  a  scale 

Of  awful  notes,  whose  concord  shall  not  fail  ; 

A  musical  but  melancholy  chime, 

Which  they  can  hear  who  meddle  not  with  crime, 

Nor  avarice,  nor  over-anxious  care. 

Truth  fails  not ;  but  her  outward  forms  that  bear 

The  longest  date  do  melt  like  frosty  rime, 

That  in  the  morning  whitened  hill  and  plain 

And  is  no  more;  drop  like  the  tower  sublime 

Of  yesterday,  which  royally  did  wear 

His  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even  sustain 

Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent  air, 

Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time. 

1821-22. 

XXIII. 

INSIDE  OF    KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL,  CAMBRIDGE. 

Tax  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense, 

With  ill-matched  aims  the  architect  who  planned, 

Albeit  labouring  for  a  scanty  band 

Of  white-robed  scholars  only,  this  immense 

And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence  ! 

Give  all  thou  canst  ;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 

Of  nicely  calculated  less  or  more. 

So  deemed  the  man  who  fashioned  for  the  sense 

These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 

Self  poised,  and  scooped  into  ten  thousand  cells, 

Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 

Lingering,  and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die; 

Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 

That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

XXIV. 
THE   SAME. 

What  awful  perspective  !  while  from  our  sight 
With  gradual  stealth  the  lateral  windows  hide 
Their  portraitures,  their  stone-work  glimmers,  dyed 
In  the  soft  chequerings  of  a  sleepy  light. 


252  TKHflltam  TOorfcswortb. 

Martyr  or  King,  or  sainted  Eremite, 
Whoe'er  ye  be,  that  thus,  yourselves  unseen, 
Inbue  your  prison  bars  with  solemn  sheen, 
Shine  on,  until  ye  fade  with  coming  night! 
But  from  the  arms  of  silence — list  O  !  list 
The  music  bursteth  into  second  life ; 
The  notes  luxuriate,  every  stone  is  kissed 
By  sound  or  ghost  of  sound,  in  mazy  strife ; 
Heart-thrilling  strains,  that  cast  before  the  eye 
Of  the  devout,  a  veil  of  ecstasy ! 


XXV. 

THE  SAME. 

They  dreamt  not  of  a  perishable  home 
Who  thus  could  build.     Be  mine,  in  hours  of  fear 
Or  grovelling  thought,  to  seek  a  refuge  here; 
Or  through  the  aisles  of  Westminster  to  roam : 
Where  bubbles  burst,  and  folly's  dancing  foam 
Melts,  if  it  cross  the  threshold  ;  where  the  wreath 
Of  awe-struck  wisdom  droops :  or  let  my  path 
Lead  to  that  younger  Pile,  whose  sky-like  dome 
Hath  typified  by  reach  of  daring  art 
Infinity's  embrace;  whose  guardian  crest, 
The  silent  Cross,  among  the  stars  shall  spread 
As  now,  when  She  hath  also  seen  her  breast 
Filled  with  mementoes,  satiate  with  its  part 
Of  grateful  England's  overflowing  Dead. 

1821-1822. 

XXVI. 

AFTER-THOUGHT. 

I  THOUGHT  of  thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide, 

As  being  passed  away.     Vain  sympathies! 

For  backward,  Duddon,  as  I  cast  my  eyes, 

I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide ; 

Still  glides  the  stream,  and  shall  not  cease  to  glide; 

The  form  remains,  the  function  never  dies; 

While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise, 

WTe  men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 

The  elements,  must  vanish.     Be  it  so ! 

Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 

To  live  and  act  and  serve  the  future  hour ; 


TKHWiam  TCHorDswoctb.  253 

And  if,  as  towards  the  silent  tomb  we  go, 

Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's   transcendent 

dower, 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know  ! 

1820. 

XXVII. 

THE  TROSSACHS. 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  pass, 

But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  one 

Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 

That  life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 

Withered  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art  which  chase 

That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 

Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 

Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 

Untouched,  unbreathed  upon.     Thrice-happy  guest, 

If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 

(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 

The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 

That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay. 

Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest ! 

1831. 

XXVIII. 

HIGHLAND  HUT. 

See  what  gay  wild-flowers  deck  this  earth-built  cot, 

Whose  smoke,  forth  issuing  whence  and  how  it  may, 

Shines  in  the  greeting  of  the  sun's  first  ray 

Like  wreaths  of  vapour  without  stain  or  blot. 

The  limpid  mountain  rill  avoids  it  not, 

And  why  shouldst  thou  ?     If  rightly  trained  and  bred, 

Humanity  is  humble,  finds  no  spot 

Which  her  Heaven-guided  feet  refuse  to  tread. 

The  walls  are  cracked,  sunk  is  the  flowery  roof, 

Undressed  the  pathway  leading  to  the  door. 

But  love,  as  Nature  loves,  the  lonely  poor ! 

Search,  for  their  worth,  some  gentle  heart  wrong-proof, 

Meek,  patient,  kind,  .and,  were  its  trials  fewer, 

Belike  less  happy.     Stand  no  more  aloof ! 

183L 


254  William  TKflortewortb, 

XXIX. 

ON   THE   DEPARTURE   OF   SIR    WALTER   SCOTT   FROM 
ABBOTSFORD   FOR  NAPLES. 

A  TROUBLE,  not  of  clouds  or  weeping  rain, 

Nor  of  the  setting  sun's  pathetic  light 

Engendered,  hangs  o'er  Eildon's  triple  height. 

Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 

For  kindred  Power  departing  from  their  sight ; 

While  Tweed,  best  pleased  in  chanting  a  blithe  strain, 

Saddens  his  voice  again  and  yet  again. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  mourners  !  for  the  might 

Of  the  whole  world's  good  wishes  with  him  goes; 

Blessings  and  prayers,  in  nobler  retinue 

Than  sceptred  king  or  laurelled  conqueror  knows, 

Follow  this  wondrous  potentate.     Be  true, 

Ye  winds  of  ocean  and  the  midland  sea, 

Wafting  your  charge  to  soft  Parthenope  ! 

1831. 


WRITTEN  IN  MARCH. 


WHILE  RESTING  ON  THE  BRIDGE  AT  THE  FOOT  OF 
BROTHER'S-WATER. 

The  cock  is  crowing, 

The  stream  is  flowing, 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun  ; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 

The  cattle  are  grazing, 

Their  heads  never  raising  ; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one ! 

Like  an  army  defeated. 
The  snow  hath  retreated, 
And  now  doth  fare  ill 
On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 
The  ploughboy  is  whooping — anon — anon 


militant  TMorfcawortb,  255 

There's  joy  in  the  mountains  ; 
There's  life  in  the  fountains  ; 
Small  clouds  are  sailing, 
Blue  sky  prevailing  ; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone  ! 

1802. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING. 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 
While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran  ; 

And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts  in  that  sweet  bower 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths; 

And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played  ; 

Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  ; 
But  the  least  motion  that  they  made, 

It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 

To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

From  heaven  if  this  belief  be  sent, 

If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 

What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 


FROM  ODE  TO  LYCORIS. 

In  youth  we  love  the  darksome  lawn 
Brushed  by  the  owlet's  wing  ; 
Then  twilight  is  preferred  to  dawn, 
And  autumn  to  the  spring. 


256  TKMUfam  MorDewortb* 

Sad  fancies  do  we  then  affect, 

In  luxury  of  disrespect 

To  our  own  prodigal  excess 

Of  too  familiar  happiness. 

Lycoris  (if  such  name  befit 

Thee,  thee  my  life's  celestial  sign  ! ) 

When  Nature  marks  the  year's  decline, 

Be  ours  to  welcome  it ; 

Pleased  with  the  harvest  hope  that  runs 

Before  the  patli  of  milder  suns  ; 

Pleased  while  the  sylvan  world  displays 

Its  ripeness  to  the  feeding  gaze  ; 

Pleased  when  the  sullen  winds  resound  the  knell 

Of  the  resplendent  miracle. 

But  something  whispers  to  my  heart 

That,  as  we  downward  tend, 

Lycoris,  life  requires  an  art 

To  which  our  souls  must  bend ; 

A  skill  to  balance  and  supply ; 

And,  ere  the  flowing  fount  be  dry, 

As  soon  it  must,  a  sense  to  sip 

Or  drink  with  no  fastidious  lip. 

Then  welcome,  above  all,  the  guest 

Whose  smiles  diffused  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Seem  to  recall  the  deity 

Of  youth  into  the  breast : 

May  pensive  autumn  ne'er  present 

A  claim  to  her  disparagement ! 

While  blossoms  and  the  budding  spray 

Inspire  us  in  our  own  decay, 

Still,  as  we  nearer  draw  to  life's  dark  goal, 

Be  hopeful  spring  the  favourite  of  the  soul ! 

1817. 


YEW-TREES. 

There  is  a  yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale, 

Which  to  this  day  stands  single,  in  the  midst 

Of  its  own  darkness,  as  it  stood  of  yore, 

Not  loath  to  furnish  weapons  for  the  bands 

Of  Umfraville  or  Percy  ere  they  marched 

To  Scotland's  heaths;   or  those  that  crossed  the  sea 

And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at  Azincour, 

Perhaps  at  earlier  Crecy,  or  Poictiers. 


militant  morDswortb.  257 

Of  vast  circumference  and  gloom  profound 

This  solitary  tree  ! — a  living  thing 

Produced  too  slowly  ever  to  decay; 

Of  form  and  aspect  too  magnificent 

To  be  destroyed.     But  worthier  still  of  note 

Are  those  fraternal  four  of  Borrowdale, 

Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious  grove ; 

Huge  trunks  !  and  each  particular  trunk  a  growth 

Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 

Up-coiling,  and  inveterately  convolved ; 

Nor  uninformed  with  phantasy,  and  looks 

That  threaten  the  profane.     A  pillared  shade 

Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red-brown  hue, 

By  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged 

Perennially — beneath  whose  sable  roof 

Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose  decked 

With  unrejoicing  berries — ghostly  shapes 

May  meet  at  noontide  ;    Fear  and  trembling  Hope, 

Silence  and  Foresight,  Death  the  Skeleton, 

And  Time  the  Shadow ;  there  to  celebrate. 

As  in  a  natural  temple  scattered  o'er 

With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone, 

United  worship ;  or  in  mute  repose 

To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 

Murmuring  from  Glaramara's  inmost  caves. 

1803. 


AIREY  FORCE  VALLEY. 

.   .   .   Not  a  breath  of  air 
Ruffles  the  bosom  of  this  leafy  glen. 
From  the  brook's  margin,  wide  around,  the  trees 
Are  steadfast  as  the  rocks ;  the  brook  itself, 
Old  as  the  hills  that  feed  it  from  afar, 
Doth  rather  deepen  than  disturb  the  calm 
Where  all  things  else  are  calm  and  motionless. 
And  yet,  even  now,  a  little  breeze,  perchance 
Escaped  from  boisterous  winds  that  rage  without, 
Has  entered,  by  the  sturdy  oaks  unfelt, 
But  to  its  gentle  touch  how  sensitive 
Is  the  light  ash  !  that,  pendent  from  the  brow 
Of  yon  dim  cave,  in  seeming  silence  makes 
A  soft  eye-music  of  slow-moving  boughs, 
Powerful  almost  as  vocal  harmony 
To  stay  the  wanderer's  steps  and  soothe  his  thoughts. 

1842. 


258  William  TOorDswortb. 


THE  ECHO. 

Yes  !  yes  !  it  was  the  mountain  echo, 

Solitary,  clear,  profound, 
Answering  to  the  shouting  cuckoo, 

Giving  to  her  sound  for  sound. 

Unsolicited  reply 

To  a  babbling  wanderer  sent ; 
Like  her  ordinary  cry. 

Like — but,  oh,  how  different ! 

Hears  not  also  mortal  life  ? 

Hear  not  we,  unthinking  creatures! 
Slaves  of  folly,  love,  or  strife — 

Voices  of  two  different  natures  ? 

Have  not  we  too  ? — Yes,  we  have 
Answers,  and  we  know  not  whence ; 

Echoes  from  beyond  the  grave, 
Recognised  intelligence! 

Such  rebounds  our  inward  ear 
Catches  sometimes  from  afar — 

Listen,  ponder,  hold  them  dear ; 
For  of  God, — of  God  they  are  ! 


THE  NIGHTINGALE   AND  THE  DOVE. 

0  Nightingale  !  thou  surely  art 
A  creature  of  a  "  fiery  heart  " ; 

These  notes  of  thine— they  pierce  and  pierce  : 

Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce  ! 

Thou  sing'st  as  if  the  god  of  wine 

Had  helped  thee  to  a  valentine — 

A  song  in  mockery,  and  despite 

Of  shades,  and  dews,  and  silent  night, 

And  steady  bliss,  and  all  the  loves 

Now  sleeping  in  these  peaceful  groves. 

1  heard  a  stock-dove  sing  or  say 
His  homely  tale  this  very  day  ; 
His  voice  was  buried  among  trees, 
Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze  ; 

He  did  not  cease  ;  but  cooed — and  cooed; 
And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed  : 


1806. 


TWlWfam  Worfcswortb.  259 

He  sang  of  love,  with  quiet  blending, 
Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending  ; 
Of  serious  faith,  and  inward  glee  ; 
That  was  the  song,  the  song  for  me  ! 

1807. 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

O  blithe  new-comer  !     I  have  heard, 
I  hear  thee  and  rejoice  : 

0  Cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass, 

Thy  loud  note  smites  my  ear ! 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far  off  and  near ! 

1  hear  thee  babbling  to  the  vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers  ; 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing; 

A  voice,  a  mystery  ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

I  listened  to  ;  that  cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green  ; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  1  do  beget 

That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place ; 

That  is  fit  home  for  thee ! 

1804. 


260  TKHflliam  IKHorDswortb. 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Up  with  me !  up  with  me,  into  the  clouds  ! 

For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong  ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me,  into  the  clouds  ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind ! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary, 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary  ; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  faery, 
Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 
There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine  ; 
Lift  me,  guide  me,  high  and  high, 
To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky  ! 

Joyous  as  morning, 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning  ; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  Lark  !  thou  wouldst  be  loath 
To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 

Happy,  happy  liver, 
With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver, 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

Alas  !  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 

Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must  wind  ; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind 

As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 

I  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on, 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  life's  day  is  clone. 

1805. 

TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

Ethereal  minstrel  !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound  ? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 

Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still ! 


TOlltam  Timorfcswortb,  261 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond 

Mount,  daring  warbler  ! — that  love-prompted  strain 
— Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond — 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  : 
Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege !  to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood  ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine  ; 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine; 
Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam  ; 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home ! 

1826. 


THE  GREEN  LINNET. 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  spring's  unclouded  weather, 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat ! 
And  flowers  and  birds  once  more  to  greet, 

My  last  year's  friends  together. 

One  have  I  marked,  the  happiest  guest 
In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest: 
Hail  to  thee,  far  above  the  rest 

In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion  ! 
Thou,  Linnet !  in  thy  green  array, 
Presiding  spirit  here  to-day, 
Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May, 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers 
Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers, 

Art  sole  in  thy  employment ; 
A  life,  a  presence  like  the  air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 
Too  blest  with  anyone  to  pair; 

Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 


a62  imiflUam  llfllortewortb. 

Upon  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees, 
That  twinkle  in  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstasies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover; 
There!  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives, 
A  brother  of  the  dancing  leaves, 
Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes  ; 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  form  he  chose  to  feign, 

While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 


1803. 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went, 
From  hill  to  hill,  in  discontent 
Of  pleasure  high  and  turbulent, 

Most  pleased  when  most  uneasy ; 
But  now  my  own  delights  I  make, — 
My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake, 
And  gladly  nature's  love  partake, 

Of  thee,  sweet  Daisy  ! 

Thee  Winter  in  the  garland  wears 
That  thinly  decks  his  few  grey  hairs  ; 
Spring  parts  the  clouds  with  softest  airs, 

That  she  may  sun  thee  ; 
Whole  Summer-fields  are  thine  by  right; 
And  Autumn,  melancholy  wight ! 
Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 

When  rains  are  on  thee. 

In  shoals  and  bands,  a  morrice  train, 
Thou  greet'st  the  traveller  in  the  lane : 
Pleased  at  his  greeting  thee  again  ; 

Yet  nothing  daunted, 
Nor  grieved  if  thou  be  set  at  naught : 
And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee,  like  a  pleasant  thought, 

When  such  are  wanted. 


'THOU    ART    INDEED,    BY    MANY    A    CLAIlVi 

the  poet's  darling." — Page  263. 


TKHtlliam  IKIlorfcswortb*  263 

Be  violets  in  their  secret  mews 

The  flowers  the  wanton  zephyrs  choose; 

Proud  be  the  rose,  with  rains  and  dews 

Her  head  impearling : 
Thou  liv'st  with  less  ambitious  aim, 
Yet  hast  not  gone  without  thy  fame; 
Thou  art  indeed,  by  many  a  claim, 

The  poet's  darling. 


If  to  a  rock  from  rains  he  fly, 
Or,  some  bright  day  of  April  sky, 
Imprisoned  by  hot  sunshine  lie 

Near  the  green  holly, 
And  wearily  at  length  should  fare ; 
He  need  but  look  about,  and  there 
Thou  art ! — a  friend  at  hand,  to  scare 

His  melancholy. 

A  hundred  times,  by  rock  or  bower, 
Ere  thus  I  have  lain  couched  an  hour, 
Have  I  derived  from  thy  sweet  power 

Some  apprehension  ; 
Some  steady  love  ;  some  brief  delight ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight ; 
Some  chime  of  fancy,  wrong  or  right, 

Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 

And  one  chance  look  to  thee  should  turn, 

I  drink,  out  of  an  humbler  urn, 

A  lowlier  pleasure ; 
The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life  our  nature  breeds  ; 
A  wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 

Of  hearts  at  leisure. 


When,  smitten  by  the  morning  ray, 

I  see  thee  rise,  alert  and  gay, 

Then,  cheerful  flower!  my  spirits  play 

With  kindred  gladness  : 
And  when,  at  dusk  by  dewsopprest, 
Thou  sink'st,  the  image  of  thy  rest 
Hath  often  eased  my  pensive  breast 

Of  careful  sadness. 


264  llWilliam  Morfcewortb. 

And  all  clay  long  I  number  yet, 
All  seasons  through,  another  debt, 
Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met, 

To  thee  am  owing  : 
An  instinct  call  it,  a  blind  sense; 
A  happy,  genial  influence, 
Coming  one  knows  not  how  nor  whence, 

Nor  whither  going  : 

Child  of  the  year !  that  round  dost  run 
Thy  pleasant  course,  when  day's  begun, 
As  ready  to  salute  the  sun 

As  lark  or  leveret, 
Thy  long-lost  praise  thou  shalt  regain  ; 
Nor  be  less  dear  to  future  men, 
Than  in  old  time : — thou  not  in  vain 

Art  nature's  favourite.*  1802. 


SO  FAIR,  SO  SWEET. 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive, 

Would  that  the  little  flowers  were  born  to  live 

Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  that  they  give ; 

That  to  this  mountain  daisy's  self  were  known 
The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shadow  thrown 
On  the  smooth  surface  of  this  naked  stone  ! 

And  what  if  hence  a  bold  desire  should  mount 
High  as  the  Sun,  that  he  could  take  account 
Of  all  that  issues  from  his  glorious  fount ! 

So  might  he  ken  how  by  his  sovereign  aid 
These  delicate  companionships  are  made ; 
And  how  he  rules  the  pomp  of  light  and  shade ; 

And  where  the  Sister-power  that  shines  by  night 

So  privileged,  what  a  countenance  of  delight 

Would  through  the  clouds  break  forth  on  human  sight ! 

Fond  fancies !  wheresoe'er  shall  turn  thine  eye 
On  earth,  air,  ocean  or  the  starry  sky, 
Converse  with  Nature  in  pure  sympathy ; 

All  vain  desires,  all  lawless  wishes  quelled, 
Be  Thou  to  love  and  praise  alike  impelled, 
Whatever  boon  is  granted  or  withheld.  1845. 

*  See  in  Chaucer  and  the  elder  poets  the  honours  formerly  paid  to  this  flower. 


TIMtlltam  TKHorfcewortb.  265 


TO  THE  SMALL  CELANDINE.* 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies: 
Let  them  live  upon  their  praises  ; 
Long  as  there's  a  sun  that  sets, 

Primroses  will  have  their  glory  ; 
Long  as  there  are  violets, 

They  will  have  a  place  in  story  ; 
There's  a  flower  that  shall  be  mine, 
'Tis  the  little  Celandine. 

Eyes  of  some  men  travel  far 

For  the  finding-of  a  star  ; 

Up  and  down  the  heavens  they  go, 

Men  that  keep  a  mighty  rout  ! 
I'm  as  great  as  they,  I  trow, 

Since  the  day  I  found  thee  out, 
Little  flower  ; — I'll  make  a  stir 
Like  a  sage  astronomer. 

Modest,  yet  withal  an  elf 

Bold,  and  lavish  of  thyself ; 

Since  we  needs  must  first  have  met 

I  have  seen  thee,  high  and  low, 
Thirty  years  or  more,  and  yet 

'Twas  a  face  I  did  not  know  ; 
Thou  hast  now,  go  where  I  may, 
Fifty  greetings  in  a  day. 

Ere  a  leaf  is  on  a  bush, 

In  the  time  before  the  thrush 

Has  a  thought  about  its  nest, 

Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a  call, 
Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast 

Like  a  careless  prodigal  ; 
Telling  tales  about  the  sun, 
When  we've  little  warmth,  or  none. 

Poets,  vain  men  in  their  mood  ! 
Travel  with  the  multitude; 
Never  heed  them  ;  I  aver 

That  they  all  are  wanton  wooers  ; 
But  the  thrifty  cottager, 

Who  stirs  little  out  of  doors, 
Joys  to  spy  thee  near  her  home  : 
Spring  is  coming — thou  art  come  ! 

*  Common  pilewort. 


266  William  TWor&swortb. 

Comfort  have  thou  of  thy  merit, 
Kindly,  unassuming  spirit ! 
Careless  of  thy  neighbourhood, 

Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face 
On  the  moor,  and  in  the  wood, 

In  the  lane ; — there's  not  a  place, 
Howsoever  mean  it  be, 
But  'tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

Ill  befall  the  yellow  flowers, 
Children  of  the  flaring  hours! 
Buttercups,  that  will  be  seen, 

Whether  we  will  see  or  no; 
Others,  too,  of  lofty  mien  ; 

They  have  done  as  worldlings  do, 
Taken  praise  that  should  be  thine, 
Little,  humble  Celandine  ! 

Prophet  of  delight  and  mirth, 
Ill-requited  upon  earth  ; 
Herald  of  a  mighty  band, 

Of  a  joyous  train  ensuing, 
Serving  at  my  heart's  command, 

Tasks  that  are  no  tasks  renewing, 
I  will  sing,  as  doth  behove, 
Hymns  in  praise  of  what  I  love ! 


1802. 


TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER. 

Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet 
When  they  lie  about  our  feet : 
February  last,  my  heart 

First  at  sight  of  thee  was  glad  ; 
All  unheard  of  as  thou  art, 

Thou  must  needs,  I  think,  have  had, 
Celandine  !  and  long  ago, 
Praise  of  which  I  nothing  know. 

Soon  as  gentle  breezes  bring 

News  of  winter's  vanishing, 

And  the  children  build  their  bowers, 

Sticking  kerchief-pots  of  mould 
All  about  with  full-blown  flowers, 

Thick  as  sheep  in  shepherd's  fold ! 
With  the  proudest  thou  art  there, 
Mantling  in  the  tiny  square. 


William  TKHorfcswoctb.  267 

Often  have  I  sighed  to  measure 
By  myself  a  lonely  pleasure, 
Sighed  to  think  I  read  a  book 

Only  read,  perhaps,  by  me ; 
Yet  I  long  could  overlook 

Thy  bright  coronet  and  thee, 
And  thy  arch  and  wily  ways, 
And  thy  store  of  other  praise. 

Blithe  of  heart,  from  week  to  week 
Thou  dost  play  at  hide-and-seek  ; 
While  the  patient  primrose  sits 

Like  a  beggar  in  the  cold, 
Thou,  a  flower  of  wiser  wits, 

Slipp'st  into  thy  sheltering  hold; 
Liveliest  of  the  vernal  train 
When  ye  all  are  out  again. 

1802. 

DAFFODILS. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host,  of  golden  daffodils  ; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced  ;   but  they 

Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee. 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company  ; 
I  gazed— and  gazed,  but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils.  1804. 


268  William  Worfcewortb, 

SOME  BALLADS,  NARRATIVES,  AND 
PASTORALS. 


SONG  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE. 

Upon  the  Restoration  of  Lord  Clifford,  the  Shepherd,  to  the  Estates 
and  Honours  of  his  Ancestors, 

High  in  the  breathless  hall  the  minstrel  sate, 
And  Emont's  murmur  mingled  with  the  song. — 

The  words  of  ancient  time  I  thus  translate, 
A  festal  strain  that  hath  been  silent  long : — 

"  From  town  to  town,  from  tower  to  tower, 

The  red  rose  is  a  gladsome  flower. 

Her  thirty  years  of  winter  past, 

The  red  rose  is  revived  at  last ; 

She  lifts  her  head  for  endless  spring, 

For  everlasting  blossoming : 

Both  roses  flourish,  red  and  white  : 

In  love  and  sisterly  delight 

The  two  that  were  at  strife  are  blended, 

And  all  old  troubles  now  are  ended. — 

Joy  !  joy  to  both  !  but  most  to  her 

Who  is  the  flower  of  Lancaster ! 

Behold  her  how  she  smiles  to-day 

On  this  great  throng,  this  bright  array  ! 

Fair  greeting  doth  she  send  to  all 

From  every  corner  of  the  hall ; 

But  chiefly  from  above  the  board 

Where  sits  in  state  our  rightful  lord, 

A  Clifford  to  his  own  restored  ! 

"  They  came  with  banner,  spear,  and  shield, 
And  it  was  proved  in  Bosworth  field. 
Not  long  the  avenger  was  withstood — 
Earth  helped  him  with  the  cry  of  blood  : 
St.  George  was  for  us,  and  the  might 
Of  blessed  Angels  crowned  the  right. 
Loud  voice  the  land  hath  uttered  forth, 
We  loudest  in  the  faithful  North  : 
Our  fields  rejoice,  our  mountains  ring, 
Our  streams  proclaim  a  welcoming  ; 


TOIlfam  TKIlor&ewortb,  269 

Our  strong  abodes  and  castles  see 
The  glory  of  their  royalty. 
How  glad  is  Skipton  at  this  hour — 
Though  lonely,  a  deserted  tower  ! 
Knight,  squire  or  yoeman,  page  or  groom  ; 
We  have  them  at  the  feast  of  Brough'm. 
How  glad  Pendragon — though  the  sleep 
Of  years  be  on  her  ! — she  shall  reap 
A  taste  of  this  great  pleasure,  viewing 
As  in  a  dream  her  own  renewing. 
Rejoiced  is  Brough,  right  glad  I  deem 
Beside  her  little  humble  stream  ; 
And  she  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward 
Her  statelier  Eden's  course  to  guard  ; 
They  both  are  happy  at  this  hour, 
Though  each  is  but  a  lonely  tower  : — ■ 
But  here  is  perfect  joy  and  pride 
For  one  fair  house  by  Emont's  side, 
This  day,  distinguished  without  peer — 
To  see  her  master  and  to  cheer 
Him,  and  his  lady-mother  dear! 

"  Oh  !  it  was  a  time  forlorn 
When  the  fatherless  was  born — 
Give  her  wings  that  she  may  fly, 
Or  she  sees  her  infant  die ! 
Swords  that  are  with  slaughter  wild 
Hunt  the  mother  and  the. child. 
Who  will  take  them  from  the  light? 
— Yonder  is  a  man  in  sight — 
Yonder  is  a  house — but  where  ? 
No,  they  must  not  enter  there. 
To  the  caves,  and  to  the  brooks, 
To  the  clouds  of  heaven  she  looks ; 
She  is  speechless,  but  her  eyes 
Pray  in  ghostly  agonies. 
Blissful  Mary,  mother  mild, 
Maid  and  mother  undefiled, 
Save  a  mother  and  her  child  ! 

"  Now  who  is  he  that  bounds  with  joy 

On  Carrock's  side,  a  shepherd-boy  ? 

No  thoughts  hath  he  but  thoughts  that  pass 

Light  as  the  wind  along  the  grass. 

Can  this  be  he  who  hither  came 

In  secret,  like  a  smothered  flame  ? 


270  TKatllfam  TKHorfcewortb* 

O'er  whom  such  thankful  tears  were  shed 
For  shelter,  and  a  poor  man's  bread  ! 
God  loves  the  child  ;  and  God  hath  willed 
That  those  dear  words  should  be  fulfilled, 
The  lady's  words,  when  forced  away, 
The  last  she  to  her  babe  did  say : 
*  My  own,  my  own,  thy  fellow-guest 
I  may  not  be ;  but  rest  thee,  rest, 
For  lowly  shepherd's  life  is  best ! ' 

"  Alas  !  when  evil  men  are  strong 

No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long. 

The  boy  must  part  from  Mosedale's  groves, 

And  leave  Blencathara's  rugged  coves, 

And  quit  the  flowers  that  summer  brings 

To  Glenderamakin's  lofty  springs  ; 

Must  vanish,  and  his  careless  cheer 

Be  turned  to  heaviness  and  fear. 

— Give  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld  praise  ! 

Hear  it,  good  man,  old  in  days  ! 

Thou  tree  of  covert  and  of  rest 

For  this  young  bird  that  is  distrest ; 

Among  thy  branches  safe  he  lay, 

And  he  was  free  to  sport  and  play, 

When  falcons  were  abroad  for  prey. 

"  A  recreant  harp,  that  sings  of  fear 
And  heaviness  in  Clifford's  ear ! 
I  said,  when  evil  men  are  strong, 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long, 
A  weak  and  cowardly  untruth  ! 
Our  Clifford  was  a  happy  youth, 
And  thankful  through  a  weary  time, 
That  brought  him  up  to  manhood's  prime. 
— Again  he  wanders  forth  at  will, 
And  tends  a  flock  from  hill  to  hill : 
His  garb  is  humble  ;  ne'er  was  seen 
Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien  ; 
Among  the  shepherd  grooms  no  mate 
Hath  he,  a  child  of  strength  and  state ! 
Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  simple  glee, 
Nor  yet  for  higher  sympathy. 
To  his  side  the  fallow  deer 
Came,  and  rested  without  fear ; 
The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea, 
Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty  ; 


llXIlWiam  IMorfcswortb.  271 

And  both  the  undying  fish  that  swim 

Through  Bowscale  Tarn  did  wait  on  him  ; 

The  pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 

In  their  immortality  ; 

And  glancing,  gleaming,  dark  or  bright, 

Moved  to  and  fro,  for  his  delight, 

He  knew  the  rocks  which  Angels  haunt 

Upon  the  mountains  visitant; 

He  hath  kenned  them  taking  wing  : 

And  into  caves  where  Faeries  sing 

He  hath  entered  ;    and  been  told 

By  voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 

Among  the  heavens  his  eye  can  see 

Face  of  thing  that  is  to  be  ; 

And,  if  that  men  report  him  right, 

His  tongue  could  whisper  words  of  might. 

— Now  another  day  is  come, 

Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom  ; 

He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook, 

And  hath  buried  deep  his  book  ; 

Armour  rusting  in  his  halls 

On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls  ; — 

'Quell  the  Scot,'  exclaims  the  lance — 

'  Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France ' 

Is  the  longing  of  the  shield  — 

Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  field  ; 

Field  of  death,  where'er  thou  be, 

Groan  thou  with  our  victory  ! 

Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour, 

When  our  shepherd,  in  his  power, 

Mailed  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword, 

To  his  ancestors  restored 

Like  a  reappearing  star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar, 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war  !  " 

Alas  !  the  impassioned  minstrel  did  not  know 

How,  by    Heaven's   grace,  this   Clifford's    heart   was 
framed, 

How  he,  long  forced  in  humble  walks  to  go, 
Was  softened  into  feeling,  soothed,  and  tamed. 

Love  had  he  found  in  huts  were  poor  men  lie  ; 

His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills, 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 

The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 


272  TOilliam  TCiorfcewortb, 

In  him  the  savage  virtue  of  the  race, 

Revenge,  and  all  ferocious  thoughts  were  dead  : 

Nor  did  he  change  ;  but  kept  in  lofty  place 
The  wisdom  which  adversity  had  bred. 

Glad  were  the  vales,  and  every  cottage  hearth  ; 

The  shepherd-lord  was  honoured  more  and  more ; 
And,  ages  after  he  was  laid  in  earth, 

"  The  good  Lord  Clifford  '"  was  the  name  he  bore. 

1807. 

II. 

HART-LEAP  WELL. 

[Hart-Leap  Well  is  a  small  spring  of  water  about  five  miles  from  Richmond,  in 
Yorkshire.  Its  name  is  derived  from  a  remarkable  chase,  the  memory  of  which  is 
preserved  by  the  monuments  spoken  of  in  the  Second  Part  of  the  following  poem.] 

The  knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley  Moor 
With  the  slow  motion  of  a  summer's  cloud  ; 

And  now,  as  he  approached  a  vassal's  door, 
"  Bring  forth  another  horse  ! "  he  cried  aloud. 

"  Another  horse  !  "  that  shout  the  vassal  heard, 
And  saddled  his  best  steed,  a  comely  gray: 

Sir  Walter  mounted  him  :  he  was  the  third 
Which  he  had  mounted  on  that  glorious  day. 

Joy  sparkled  in  the  prancing  courser's  eyes ; 

The  horse  and  horseman  are  a  happy  pair ; 
But,  though  Sir  Walter  like  a  falcon  flies, 

There  is  a  doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A  rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter's  hall, 

That,  as  they  galloped,  made  the  echoes  roar  ; 

But  horse  and  man  are  vanished,  one  and  all  ; 
Such  race,  I  think,  was  never  seen  before. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a  veering  wind, 

Calls  to  the  few  tired  dogs  that  yet  remain  ; 

Blanch,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their  kind, 
Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain  strain, 

The  knight  hallooed,  he  cheered  and  chid  them  on 
With  suppliant  gestures  and  upraidings  stern  ; 

But  breath  and  eyesight  fail :  and  one  by  one 

The  dogs  are  stretched  among  the  mountain  fern. 


TKflUHam  Morfrsvvortb.  273 

Where  is  the  throng,  the  tumult  of  the  race? 

The  bugles  that  so  joyfully  were  blown  ? 
— This  chase  it  looks  not  like  an  earthly  chase; 

Sir  Walter  and  the  hart  are  left  alone. 

The  poor  hart  toils  along  the  mountain  side 

I  will  not  stop  to  tell  how  far  he  fled, 
Nor  will  I  mention  by  what  death  he  died  ; 

But  now  the  knight  beholds  him  lying  dead. 

Dismounting,  then,  he  leaned  against  a  thorn  ; 

He  had  no  follower,  dog,  nor  man,  nor  boy  : 
He  neither  cracked  his  whip,  nor  blew  his  horn, 

But  gazed  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter  leaned, 
Stood  his  dumb  partner  in  this  glorious  feat ; 

Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yeaned  ; 
And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving  sleet. 

Upon  his  side  the  hart  was  lying  stretched  : 

His  nose  half  touched  a  spring  beneath  the  hill, 

And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath  has  fetched, 
The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling  still. 

And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest, 

(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot !) 
Sir  Walter  walked  all  round,  north,  south,  and  west, 

And  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  darling  spot. 

And  climbing  up  the  hill,  (it  was  at  least 

Nine  roods  of  sheer  ascent,)  Sir  Walter  found 

Three  several  hoof-marks  which  the  hunted  beast 
Had  left  imprinted  on  the  grassy  ground. 

Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  "  Till  now 
Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  human  eyes  : 

Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty  brow, 
Down  to  the  very  fountain  where  he  lies. 

"  I'll  build  a  pleasure-house  upon  this  spot, 

And  a  small  arbour  made  for  rural  joy  ; 
'Twill  be  the  traveller's  shed,  the  pilgrim's  cot, 

A  place  of  love  for  damsels  that  are  coy. 

"  A  cunning  artist  will  I  have  to  frame 

A  basin  for  the  fountain  in  the  dell  ! 
And  they  who  do  make  mention  of  the  same 

From  this  day  forth  shall  call  it  '  Hart-Leap  Well.' 


274  tXHilliam  Morfcewortb. 

"  And,  gallant  stag  !  to  make  thy  praises  known, 
Another  monument  shall  here  be  raised  ; 

Three  several  pillars,  each  a  rough-hewn  stone, 
And  planted  where  thy  hoofs  the  turf  have  grazed. 

"  And  in  the  summer-time,  when  days  are  long, 
I  will  come  hither  with  my  paramour  : 

And  with  the  dancers,  and  the  minstrel's  song, 
We  will  make  merry  in  that  pleasant  bower. 

"  Till  the  foundations  of  the  mountains  fail, 
My  mansion  with  its  arbour  shall  endure  : — 

The  joy  of  them  who  till  the  fields  of  Swale, 

And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods  of  Ure ! " 

Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  hart,  stone  dead, 
With  breathless  nostrils  stretched  above  the  spring, 

— Soon  did  the  knight  perform  what  he  had  said, 
And  far  and  wide  the  fame  thereof  did  ring. 

Ere  thrice  the  moon  into  her  port  had  steered, 
A  cup  of  stone  received  the  living  well ; 

Three  pillars  of  rude  stone  Sir  Walter  reared, 
And  built  a  house  of  pleasure  in  the  dell. 

And  near  the  fountain,  flowers  of  stature  tall, 

With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  intertwined, — 

Which  soon  composed  a  little  sylvan  hall, 
A  leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind. 

And  thither,  when  the  summer  days  were  long, 
Sir  Walter  journeyed  with  his  paramour; 

And  with  the  dancers,  and  the  minstrel's  song, 
Made  merriment  within  that  pleasant  bower. 

The  knight,  Sir  Walter,  died  in  course  of  time, 
And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale. — 

But  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 


PART   SECOND. 

The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade : 
To  freeze  the  blood  I  have  no  ready  arts  ; 

'Tis  my  delight,  alone  in  summer  shade, 
To  pipe  a  simple  song  for  thinking  hearts. 


TOWiam  TOilorfcswortb.  275 

As  I  from  Hawes  to  Richmond  did  repair, 
It  chanced  that  I  saw,  standing  in  a  dell, 

Three  aspens  at  three  corners  of  a  square  ; 
And  one,  not  four  yards  distant,  near  a  well. 

What  this  imported  I  could  ill  divine: 

And,  pulling-  now  the  rein,  my  horse  to  stop, 

I  saw  three  pillars  standing  in  a  line, 
The  last  stone  pillar  on  a  dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  gray,  with  neither  arms  nor  head ; 

Half-wasted  the  square  mound  of  tawny  green ; 
So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I  said, 

*'  Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  hath  been." 

I  looked  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near, 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey ; 

It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here, 
And  Nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

I  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost, 
When  one,  who  was  in  shepherd's  garb  attired, 

Came  up  the  hollow.     Him  did  I  accost, 

And  what  this  place  might  be  I  then  inquired. 

The  shepherd  stopped,  and  that  same  story  told 
Which  in  my  former  rhyme  I  have  rehearsed. 

"  A  jolly  place,"  said  he,  "  in  times  of  old  ! 
But  something  ails  it  now  ;  the  spot  is  curst. 

"  You  see  these  lifeless  stumps  of  aspen  wood — 
Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,  others  elms — 

These  were  the  bower  ;  and  here  a  mansion  stood, 
The  finest  palace  of  a  hundred  realms  ! 

"  The  arbour  does  its  own  condition  tell  ; 

You  see  the  stones,  the  fountain,  and  the  stream ; 
But  as  to  the  great  lodge  !  you  might  as  well 

Hunt  half  a  clay  for  a  forgotten  dream. 

"  There's  neither  dog  nor  heifer,  horse  nor  sheep, 
Will  wet  his  lips  within  that  cup  of  stone  ; 

And  oftentimes,  when  all  are  fast  asleep, 

This  water  doth  send  forth  a  dolorous  groan. 

"  Some  say  that  here  a  murder  has  been  done, 
And  blood  cries  out  for  blood  ;  but,  for  my  part, 

I've  guessed,  when  I've  been  sittting  in  the  sun, 
That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  hart. 


27<5  IDdiltiam  TKlortewortb* 

"  What   thoughts    must    through    the   creature's   brain 
have  passed  ! 

Even  from  the  topmost  stone,  upon  the  steep, 
Are  but  three  bounds  ;  and  look,  sir,  at  this  last — 

O  master  !  it  has  been  a  cruel  leap. 

"  For  thirteen  hours  he  ran  a  desperate  race; 

And  in  my  simple  mind  we  cannot  tell 
What  cause  the  hart  might  have  to  love  this  place, 

And  come  and  make  his  death-bed  near  the  well. 

"  Here  on  the  grass  perhaps  asleep  he  sank, 
Lulled  by  the  fountain  in  the  summer-tide  ; 

This  water  was  perhaps  the  first  he  drank 

When  he  had  wandered  from  his  mother's  side. 

"  In  April  here  beneath  the  scented  thorn 

He  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols  sing ; 

And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was  born 
Not  half  a  furlong  from  that  self-same  spring. 

"  Now,  here  is  neither  grass  nor  pleasant  shade ; 

The  sun  on  drearier  hollow  never  shone  ; 
So  will  it  be,  as  I  have  often  said, 

Till  trees  and  stones  and  fountain,  all  are  gone/' 

"  Gray-headed  shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken  well ; 

Small  difference  lies  between  thy  creed  and  mine : 
This  beast  not  unobserved  by  Nature  fell ; 

His  death  was  mourned  by  sympathy  divine. 

"  The  Being  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 

That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves, 

Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care 

For  the  unoffending  creatures  whom  he  loves. 

"  The  pleasure-house  is  dust — behind,  before, 
This  is  no  common  waste,  no  common  gloom  ; 

But  Nature,  in  due  course  of  time,  once  more 
Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her  bloom. 

"  She  leaves  these  objects  to  a  slow  decay, 

That  what  we  are,  and  have  been,  may  be  known ; 

But,  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day, 

These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 


TJCWliam  TJClor&swortb.  277 

"  One  lesson,  shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 

Taught  both  by  what  she  shows  and  what  conceals — 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 

With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels." 

1800. 


III. 

POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

An  Orpheus  !  an  Orpheus  !  yes,  faith  may  grow  bold, 
And  take  to  herself  all  the  wonders  of  old  ; — 
Near  the  stately  Pantheon  you'll  meet  with  the  same 
In  the  street  that  from  Oxford  hath  borrowed  its  name. 

His  station  is  there  ;  and  he  works  on  the  crowd, 
He  sways  them  with  harmony  merry  and  loud  ; 
He  fills  with  his  power  all  their  hearts  to  the  brim — 
Was  aught  ever  heard  like  his  fiddle  and  him  ? 

What  an  eager  assembly  !  what  an  empire  is  this  ! 
The  weary  have  life,  and  the  hungry  have  bliss  ; 
The  mourner  is  cheered,  and  the  anxious  have  rest ; 
And  the  guilt-burthened  soul  is  no  longer  opprest. 

As  the  moon  brightens  round  her  the  clouds  of  the  night, 
So  he,  where  he  stands,  is  a  centre  of  light  ; 
It  gleams  on  the  face,  there,  of  dusky-browed  Jack, 
And  the  pale-visaged  baker's,  with  basket  on  back. 

That  errand-bound  prentice  was  passing  in  haste — 
What  matter?  he's  caught — and  his  time  runs  to  waste. 
The  newsman  is  stopped,  though  he  stops  on  the  fret  ; 
And  the  half-breathless  lamplighter — he's  in  the  net ! 

The  porter  sits  down  on  the  weight  which  he  bore; 
The  lass  with  her  barrow  wheels  hither  her  store  ; 
If  a  thief  could  be  here,  he  might  pilfer  at  ease  ; 
She  sees  the  musician,  'tis  all  that  she  sees  ! 

He  stands,  backed  by  the  wall ;  he  abates  not  his  din  ; 
His  hat  gives  him  vigour,  with  boons  dropping  in 
From  the  old  and  the  young,  from  the  poorest  ;  and  there ! 
The  one-pennied  boy  has  his  penny  to  spare. 


278  William  TWorDewortb. 

0  blest  are  the  hearers,  and  proud  be  the  hand 

Of  the  pleasure  it  spreads  through  so  thankful  a  band; 

1  am  glad  for  him,  blind  as  he  is  !  —  all  the  while 

If  they  speak  'tis  to  praise,  and  they  praise  with  a  smile. 

That  tall  man,  a  giant  in  bulk  and  in  height, 
Not  an  inch  of  his  body  is  free  from  delight ; 
Can  he  keep  himself  still,  if  he  would  ?  oh,  not  he  ! 
The  music  stirs  in  him  like  wind  through  a  tree. 

Mark  that  cripple  who  leans  on  his  crutch  ;  like  a  tower 
That  long  has  leaned  forward,  leans  hour  after  hour  ! 
That  mother,  whose  spirit  in  fetters  is  bound,  • 
While  she  dandles  the  babe  in  her  arms  to  the  sound. 

Now,  coaches  and  chariots !  roar  on  like  a  stream  ; 
Here  are  twenty  souls  happy  as  souls  in  a  dream  : 
They  are  deaf  to  your  murmurs — they  care  not  for  you, 
Nor  what  ye  are  flying,  nor  what  ye  pursue  ! 

1806. 

IV. 

RESOLUTION   AND  INDEPENDENCE. 

There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night ; 

The  rain  came  heavily,  and  fell  in  floods ; 
But  now  the  sun  is  rising  calm  and  bright ; 

The  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods  ; 

Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  stock-dove  broods ; 
The  jay  makes  answer  as  the  magpie  chatters  ; 
And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise  of  waters. 

All  things  that  love  the  sun  are  out  of  doors  ; 

The  sky  rejoices  in  the  morning's  birth  ; 
The  grass  is  bright  with  rain-drops  ; — on  the  moors 

The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth  ; 

And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy  earth 
Raises  a  mist,  that,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Runs  with  her  all  the  way,  wherever  she  doth  run. 

I  was  a  traveller  then  upon  the  moor, 

I  saw  the  hare  that  raced  about  with  joy  ; 

I  heard  the  woods  and  distant  waters  roar ; 
Or  heard  them  not,  as  happy  as  a  boy  : 
The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  employ  : 

My  old  remembrances  went  from  me  wholly ; 

And  all  the  ways  of  men,  so  vain  and  melancholy. 


railfam  llClor&swortb.  279 

But,  as  it  sometimes  chanceth,  from  the  might 

Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go, 
As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 

In  our  dejection  do  we  sink  as  low  ; 

To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so  ; 
And  fears  and  fancies  thick  upon  me  came  ; 
Dim  sadness — and    blind  thoughts,  I    knew   not,  nor 
could  name. 

I  heard  the  skylark  warbling  in  the  sky ; 

And  I  bethought  me  of  the  playful  hare: 
Even  such  a  happy  child  of  earth  am  I  ; 

Even  as  these  blissful  creatures  do  I  fare  ; 

Far  from  the  world  I  walk,  and  from  all  care  ; 
But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me — 
Solitude,  pain  of  heart,  distress,  and  poverty. 

My  whole  life  I  have  lived  in  pleasant  thought, 
As  if  life's  business  were  a  summer  mood  ; 

As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  unsought 
To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good  ; 
But  how  can  he  expect  that  others  should 

Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his  call 

Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no  heed  at  all  ? 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  boy, 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride ; 

Of  him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy 

Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain  side : 
By  our  own  spirits  are  we  deified  ; 

We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness ; 

But  thereof  come  in  the  end  despondency  and  madness. 

Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace, 
A  leading  from  above,  a  something  given, 

Yet  it  befell,  that,  in  this  lonely  place, 

When  I,  with  these  untoward  thoughts  had  striven, 
Beside  a  pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven, 

I  saw  a  man  before  me  unawares: 

The  oldest  man  he  seemed  that  ever  wore  gray  hairs. 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence  ; 

Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy, 

By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and  whence, 
So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense  : 

Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a  shelf 

Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  itself ; 


280  TOillfam  m>r£>swortb. 

Such  seemed  this  man,  not  all  alive  nor  dead, 
Nor  all  asleep — in  his  extreme  old  age : 

His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 
Coining  together  in  life's  pilgrimage  ; 
As  if  some  dire  constraint  of  pain,  or  rage 

Of  sickness  felt  by  him  in  times  long  past, 

A  more  than  human  weight  upon  his  frame  had  cast. 

Himself  he  propped,  body,  and  pale  face, 
Upon  a  long  gray  staff  of  shaven  wood  : 

And,  still  as  I  drew  near  with  gentle  pace, 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  man  stood, 

That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call 

And  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all. 

At  length,  himself  unsettling,  he  the  pond 
Stirred  with  his  staff,  and  fixedly  did  look 

Upon  the  muddy  water,  which  he  conned, 
As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a  book  : 
And  now  a  stranger's  privilege  I  took  ; 

And,  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say, 

"  This  morning  gives  us  promise  of  a  glorious  day." 

A  gentle  answer  did  the  old  man  make, 

In  courteous  speech,  which  forth  he  slowly  drew  : 

And  him  with  further  words  I  thus  bespake, 
"  What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue  ? 
This  is  a  lonesome  place  for  one  like  you." 

Ere  he  replied,  a  flash  of  mild  surprise 

Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet-vivid  eyes. 

His  words  came  feebly,  from  a  feeble  chest, 
But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each, 

With  something  of  a  lofty  utterance  drest — 

Choice  word  and  measured  phrase,  above  the  reach 
Of  ordinary  men  ;  a  stately  speech  ; 

Such  as  grave  livers  do  in  Scotland  use, 

Religious  men,  who  give  to  God  and  man  their  dues. 

He  told,  that  to  these  waters  he  had  come 
To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor  : 

Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome  ! 
And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure : 
From  pond  to  pond  he  roamed,  from  moor  to  moor; 

Housing,  with  God's  good  help,  by  choice  or  chance, 

And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest  maintenance. 


raillam  WorDswortb.  281 

The  old  man  still  stood  talking  by  my  side ; 
But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a  stream 

Scarce  heard  ;  nor  word  from  word  could  I  divide  ; 
And  the  whole  body  of  the  man  did  seem 
Like  one  whom  I  had  met  with  in  a  dream  ; 

Or  like  a  man  from  some  far  region  sent, 

To  give  me  human  strength,  by  apt  admonishment. 

My  former  thoughts  returned  :  the  fear  that  kills, 

And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed  ; 
Cold,  pain,  and  labour,  and  all  fleshly  ills; 

And  mighty  Poets  in  their  misery  dead. 

— Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  comforted, 
My  question  eagerly  did  I  renew, 
"  How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you  do  ?  " 

He  with  a  smile  did  then  his  words  repeat ; 

And  said,  that,  gathering  leeches,  far  and  wide 
He  travelled  ;  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 

The  waters  of  the  pools  where  they  abide. 

"  Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every  side  ; 
But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay  ; 
Yet  still  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where  I  may." 

While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place, 

The  old  man's  shape  and  speech — all  troubled  me  ; 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him  pace 
About  the  weary  moors  continually, 
Wandering  about  alone  and  silently. 

While  I  these  thoughts  within  myself  pursued, 

He  having  made  a  pause,  the  same  discourse  renewed. 

And  soon  with  this  he  other  matter  blended, 

Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanour  kind, 
But  stately  in  the  main  ;  and  when  he  ended, 
I  could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn,  to  find 
In  that  decrepit  man  so  firm  a  mind. 
"  God,"  said  I,  "  be  my  help  and  stay  secure  : 
I'll  think  of  the  leech  gatherer  on  the  lonely  moor  !  " 

1802. 
v. 

THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN. 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three  years  ; 
Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  Bird. 


282  TKHUlfam  Tldortewortb. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her  ?     She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail ; 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :  but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade  : 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes.   - 

1797. 
VI. 

WE  ARE  SEVEN. 

A  SIMPLE  child 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl  : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said; 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair  ; 

— Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ?  " 
"  How  many  ?     Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  they  ?  I  pray  you  tell." 
She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  : 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother  ; 
And  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 


'down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail. 
—Page  282. 


Milliam  TOortewortb,  283 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  ! — I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be  ?  " 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 

Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive; 
If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied  ; 
"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 

And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"  And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane  ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay. 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid  ; 

And  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 


284  TOilliam  TlMor&swortb. 

"  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I. 

"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ?  " 
Quick  was  the  little  maid's  reply, 

"  O  master !  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  ! " 
'Twas  throwing  words  away  :  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  ! " 


1798. 


VII. 

ANECDOTE  FOR  FATHERS. 

I  HAVE  a  boy  of  five  years  old  ; 

His  face  is  fair  and  fresh  to  see : 
His  limbs  are  cast  in  beauty's  mould, 

And  dearly  he  loves  me. 

One  morn  we  strolled  on  our  dry  walk, 
Our  quiet  home  all  full  in  view, 

And  held  such  intermitted  talk 
As  we  are  wont  to  do. 

My  thoughts  on  former  pleasures  ran  ; 

I  thought  of  Kilve's  delightful  shore, 
Our  pleasant  home  when  spring  began, 

A  long,  long  year  before. 

A  day  it  was  when  I  could  bear 

Some  fond  regrets  to  entertain 
With  so  much  happiness  to  spare, 

I  could  not  feel  a  pain. 

The  green  earth  echoed  to  the  feet 

Of  lambs  that  bounded  through  the  glade, 

From  shade  to  sunshine,  and  as  fleet 
From  sunshine  back  to  shade. 

Birds  warbled  round  me — and  each  trace 
Of  inward  sadness  had  its  charm  ; 

Kilve,  thought  I,  was  a  favoured  place, 
And  so  is  Liswyn  farm, 


William  TlGlorfcswortb.  285 

My  boy  beside  me  tripped,  so  slim 

And  graceful  in  his  rustic  dress  ! 
And  as  we  talked,  I  questioned  him 

In  very  idleness. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  had  you  rather  be," 

I  said,  and  took  him  by  the  arm, 
"  On  Kilve's  smooth  shore,  by  the  green  sea 

Or  here  at  Liswyn  farm  ?  " 

In  careless  mood  he  looked  at  me, 

While  still  I  held  him  by  the  arm, 
And  said,  "  At  Kilve  I'd  rather  be 

Than  here  at  Liswyn  farm." 

"  Now,  little  Edward,  say  why  so  : 
My  little  Edward,  tell  me  why  ?  " — 

"  I  cannot  tell,  I  do  not  know." — 
44  Why,  this  is  strange,"  said  I  ; 

44  For  here  are  woods,  hills  smooth  and  warm  ; 

There  surely  must  some  reason  be 
Why  you  would  change  sweet  Liswyn  farm 

For  Kilve  by  the  green  sea." 

At  this  my  boy  hung  down  his  head,    ■ 
He  blushed  with  shame,  nor  made  reply  ; 

And  three  times  to  the  child  I  said, 
44  Why,  Edward,  tell  me  why  ?  " 

His  head  he  raised — there  was  in  sight, 
It  caught  his  eye,  he  saw  it  plain, — 

Upon  the  house-top,  glittering  bright, 
A  broad  and  gilded  vane. 

Then  did  the  boy  his  tongue  unlock  ; 

And  thus  to  me  he  made  reply  : 
44  At  Kilve  there  was  no  weathercock  ; 

And  that's  the  reason  why." 

O  dearest,  dearest  boy  !  my  heart 
For  better  lore  would  seldom  yearn, 

Could  I  but  teach  the  hundredth  part 
Of  what  from  thee  I  learn. 

1798. 


286  TOUlltam  TOorDswortb. 

VIII. 

LUCY  GRAY; 

OR,  SOLITUDE. 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray: 
And  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 

I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade,  Lucy  knew  ; 

She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
— The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 

Beside  a  human  door  ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play 
The  hare  upon  the  green ; 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 

And  take  a  lantern,  child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"  That,  father  !  will  I  gladly  do : 
'Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 

The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  moon." 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook 
And  snapped  a  faggot  band  ; 

He  plied  his  work  ; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe  : 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 

Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time  : 
She  wandered  up  and  down : 

And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb  ; 
But  never  reached  the  town. 


TKHUltam  TIMorfcswortb.  287 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night, 

Went  shouting  far  and  wide  ; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood 

That  overlooked  the  moor  ; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 

A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept — and  turning  homeward,  cried, 

"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet !  " 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 

The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small ; 

And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone  wal1 ; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed : 

The  marks  were  still  the  same : 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 

The  footmarks  one  by  one. 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank  ; 

And  further  there  was  none  ! 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 

She  is  a  living  child: 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 

Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along 

And  never  looks  behind  ; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 

That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


1799. 


IX. 

THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red, 

Uprose  the  morning  sun  ; 
And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked,  and  said, 

"  The  will  of  God  be  done  !  " 


288  OWUlHam  TKHorfcewortb* 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray  ; 

As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 


And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass, 

And  by  the  streaming  rills, 
We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 

A  day  among  the  hills. 


"  Our  work,"  said  I,  "  was  well  begun  ; 

Then  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 

So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?  " 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop, 

And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 

To  me  he  made  reply : 

"  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 

Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this,  which  I  have  left 

Full  thirty  years  behind. 

"  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 

Such  colours,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky,  that  April  morn. 

Of  this  the  very  brother. 

"  With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 

Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 
And,  to  the  church-yard  come,  stopped  short 

Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 

The  pride  of  all  the  vale ; 
And  then  she  sang  :  she  would  have  been 

A  very  nightingale. 

"  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay  ; 

And  yet  I  loved  her  more, 
For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 

I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

"And,  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met, 

Beside  the  church-yard  yew, 
A  blooming  girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 

With  points  of  morning  dew. 


TOlHam  Wor&svvortb,  289 

"  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare ; 

Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white ; 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 

It  was  a  pure  delight ! 

"  No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 

E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free  ; 
She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 

That  dances  on  the  sea. 

"  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 

Which  I  could  ill  confine  ; 
I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again, 

And  did  not  wish  her  mine." 

Matthew  is  in  his  grave ;  yet  now, 

Methinks  I  see  him  stand 
As  at  that  moment,  with  his  bough 

Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 

I799- 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

A  CONVERSATION. 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 

Affectionate  and  true; 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 

And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 

Beside  a  mossy  seat  ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke, 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

"  Now,  Matthew  !  "  said  I,  "  let  us  match 

This  water's  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  Border  song,  or  catch 

That  suits  a  summer's  noon  ; 

"  Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 

Sing  here  beneath  the  shade, 
That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 

Which  you  last  April  made !  " 


In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree ; 

And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
The  gray-haired  man  of  glee  : 


2 9°  railfam  TlWor&swortb. 

"  No  check,  no  stay,  this  streamlet  fears, 

How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 

And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day 

I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

"  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred, 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

"  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  ; 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

"  The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 

The  lark  above  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

"  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 

A  foolish  strife  :  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 

Is  beautiful  and  free  : 

"  But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws ; 

And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"  If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan, 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own  % 

It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"  My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approved, 

And  many  love  me;  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains; 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains ; 


•OflWfam  laaorfcswortb.  291 

"And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 

I'll  be  a  son  to  thee  ! " 
At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 

"'Alas  !  that  cannot  be." 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side, 

And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide ; 

And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  Rock, 

He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 

And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


1799. 


XI. 

THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET. 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  son, 

Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead  ? 
Oh,  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone! 

Or,  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed, 
Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same, 
That  I  may  rest,  and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name  ? 

Seven  years,  alas  !  to  have  received 

No  tidings  of  an  only  child  ; 
To  have  despaired,  have  hoped,  believed, 

And  be  for  evermore  beguiled, 
Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss  ! 
I  catch  at  them  and  then  I  miss  ; 
Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this? 

He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 
An  object  beauteous  to  behold ; 

Well  born,  well  bred,  I  sent  him  forth 
Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold  ; 

If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace, 

As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base  ; 

And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 

Ah  !  little  doth  the  young  one  dream, 
When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares, 

What  power  is  in  his  wildest  scream, 
Heard  by  his  mother  unawares ! 


292  7KHtllfam  TJGlorfcswortb. 

He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess  : 
Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress, 
But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 


Neglect  me  !  no,  I  suffered  long 

From  that  ill  thought ;  and,  being  blind, 
Said,  "  Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong  : 

Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 
As  ever  breathed."     And  that  is  true  ; 
I've  wet  my  path  with  tears  like  dew, 
Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 


My  son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor, 
Hopeless  of  honour  and  of  gain, 

Oh,  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door ! 
Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain ; 

I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes  ; 

And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise, 

And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 


Alas  !  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings, 
And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight ; 

They  mount — how  short  a  voyage  brings 
The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight ! 

Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea  ; 

And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 

All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 


Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan, 
Maimed,  mangled  by  inhuman  men  ; 

Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 
Inheritest  the  lion's  den  ; 

Or  hast  been  summoned  to  the  deep, 

Thou,  thou  and  all  thy  mates,  to  keep 

An  incommunicable  sleep. 

I  look  for  ghosts  ;  but  none  will  force 

Their  way  to  me  :  'tis  falsely  said 
That  there  was  ever  intercourse 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead  ; 
For,  surely,  then  I  should  have  sight 
Of  him  I  wait  for  day  and  night, 
With  love  and  longings  infinite. 


TWUlltam  TKHorfcswortb.  293 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds ; 

I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass ; 
The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 

Have  power  to  shake  me  as  they  pass. 
I  question  things,  and  do  not  find 
One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind, 
And  all  the  world  appears  unkind, 

Beyond  participation  lie 

My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief ; 
If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh, 

They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief. 
Then  come  to  me,  my  son,  or  send 
Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end  : 
I  have  no  other  earthly  friend  ! 

1804. 

XII. 

MICHAEL. 

A    PASTORAL    POEM. 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 
Your  feet  must  struggle  ;  in  such  bold  ascent 
The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 
But  courage  !  for  around  that  boisterous  brook, 
The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  themselves 
And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 
No  habitation  can  be  seen  ;  but  they 
Who  journey  hither  find  themselves  alone 
With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones  and  kites 
That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 
It  is,  in  truth,  an  utter  solitude  ; 
Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by, 
Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the  brook 
Appears  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones  ; 
And  to  that  place  a  story  appertains 
Which,  though  it  be  ungarnished  with  events, 
Is  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside 
Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
Of  shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 


294  militant  XKHorDswortb. 

Whom  I  already  loved — not,  verily, 

For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 

Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 

And  hence  this  tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy 

Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 

Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 

Of  natural  objects  led  me  on  to  feel 

For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 

(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 

On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 

Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 

Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 

For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts  ; 

And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 

Of  youthful  poets,  who  among  these  hills 

Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 


Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a  shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name  ; 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart  and  strong  of  limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength  :  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs, 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone  ;  and  oftentimes, 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  south 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The  shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say, 
"  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me !  " 
And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm — that  drives 
The  traveller  to  a  shelter — summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains  :  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists 
That  came  to  him  and  left  him  on  the  heights. 
So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 
And  grossly  that  man  errs  who  should  suppose 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and  rocks, 
Were  things  indifferent  to  the  shepherd's  thoughts. 
Fields  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had  breathed 
The  common  air  ;  the  hills  which  he  so  oft 
Had  climbed  with  vigorous  steps,  which  had  impressed 
So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 


ISrauifam  MorOswortb.  295 

Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear ; 

Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  memory 

Of  the  dumb  animals  whom  he  had  saved, 

Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts 

The  certainty  of  honourable  gain  — 

Those  fields,  those  hills  (what  could  they  less?),  had  laid 

Strong  hold  on  his  affections ;  were  to  him 

A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 

The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 


His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  singleness. 
His  helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house.     Two  wheels  she  had 
Of  antique  form — this  large  for  spinning  wool, 
That  small  for  flax  ;  and  if  one  wheel  had  rest, 
It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 
The  pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house, 
An  only  child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 
When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 
To  deem  that  he  was  old — in  shepherd's  phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only  son, 
With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a  storm, 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly  say, 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.     When  day  was  gone, 
And  from  their  occupations  out-of-doors 
The  son  and  father  were  come  home,  even  then 
Their  labour  did  not  cease  ;  unless  when  all 
Turned  to  their  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 
Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk, 
Sat  round  their  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes, 
And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.    Yet  when  their  meal 
Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  son  was  named) 
And  his  old  father  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fireside:  perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 


Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's  edge, 
That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 


296  TOilliam  TOorfcswortb. 

Did  with  a  huge  projection  overbrow 

Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 

Of  day  grew  dim  the  housewife  hung  a  lamp — 

An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 

Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 

Early  at  evening  did  it  burn,  and  late, 

Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours, 

Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found, 

And  left  the  couple  neither  gay,  perhaps, 

Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes, 

Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year. 

There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sat, 

Father  and  son,  while  late  into  the  night 

The  housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 

Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 

Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 

This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighbourhood, 

And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life 

That  thrifty  pair  had  lived.     For,  as  it  chanced, 

Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 

Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north  and  south, 

High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 

And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake  ; 

And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 

And  so  far  seen,  the  house  itself,  by  all 

Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 

Both  old  and  young,  was  named  The  Evening  Star. 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of  years, 
The  shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  helpmate  ;  but  to  Michael's  heart 
This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Blind  spirit  which  is  in  the  blood  of  all — 
Than  that  a  child  more  than  all  other  gifts 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy.     For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness  ;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 


William  Wor&swortb.  297 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love — 
Albeit  of  a  stern,  unbending  mind — 
To  have  the  young  one  in- his  sight,  when  he 
Had  work  by  his  own  door,  or  when  he  sat 
With  sheep  before  him  on  his  shepherd's  stool, 
Beneath  that  large  old  oak  which  near  their  door 
Stood,  and  from  its  enormous  breadth  of  shade 
Chosen  for  the  shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree,*  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 
There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scare  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  shears. 

And  when,  by  Heaven's  good  grace,  the  boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old, 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hooped 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff, 
And  gave  it  to  the  boy ;  wherewith  equipt 
He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock  ; 
And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called, 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 
Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help  ; 
And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe, 
Receiving  from  his  father  hire  of  praise  ; 
Though  naught  was  left  undone  which  staff,  or  voice, 
Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures  could  perform. 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts,  and  to  the  heights, 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 
He  with  his  father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now  ?  that  from  the  boy  there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations— things  which  were 

*  Clipping  is  the  word  used  in  the  North  of  England  for  shearing. 


298  TOUlHam  TKllorfcswortb. 

Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind  ; 

And  that  the  old  man's  heart  seemed  born  again ! 

Thus  in  his  father's  sight  the  boy  grew  up ; 
And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth  yearr 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.     Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  shepherd  had  been  bound 
In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 
Of  an  industrious  life  and  ample  means  ; 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 
Had  prest  upon  him  ;  and  old  Michael  now 
Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeiture — 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.     This  unlooked-for  claim; 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 
As  soon  as  he  had  gathered  so  much  strength 
That  he  could  look  his  trouble  in  the  face, 
It  seemed  that  his  sole  refuge  was  to  sell 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve  ;  he  thought  again, 
And  his  heart  failed  him.     "  Isabel,"  said  he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
"  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived  ;  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours 
Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot ;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I  ; 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us ;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.     I  forgive  him  ;  but 
'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 
When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies,  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel  :  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free ; 


WUllfam  TWortewortb.  299 

He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 

That  passes  over  it.     We  have,  thou  know'st, 

Another  kinsman  ;  he  will  be  our  friend 

In  this  distress.     He  is  a  prosperous  man, 

Thriving  in  trade  ;  and  Luke  to  him  shall  go, 

And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 

He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 

May  come  again  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 

What  can  be  done  ?     Where  everyone  is  poor, 

What  can  be  gained  ?  "     At  this  the  old  man  paused, 

And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 

Was  busy  looking  back  into  past  times. 

There's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to  herself, 

He  was  a  parish-boy  ;  at  the  church-door 

They  made  a  gathering  for  him — shillings,  pence, 

And  half-pennies — wherewith  the  neighbours  bought 

A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  peddler's  wares  ; 

And,  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 

Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there, 

Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  boy 

To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 

Beyond  the  seas  ;  where  he  grew  wondrous  rich, 

And  left  estate  and  moneys  to  the  poor, 

And,  at  his  birthplace,  built  a  chapel  floored 

With  marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands. 

These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 

Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 

And  her  face  brightened.     The  old  man  was  glad, 

And  thus  resumed  :  "  Well,  Isabel !  this  scheme, 

These  two  days,  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 

Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 

We  have  enough.     I  wish,  indeed,  that  I 

Were  younger :  but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 

Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the  best 

Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth 

To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night : 

If  he  could  go,  the  boy  should  go  to-night." 

Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.     The  housewife  for  five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work ;  for  when  she  lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  two  last  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep  ; 


3°°  TKHfllfam  TKHorfcswortb. 

And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.     That  clay  at  noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door:  "  Thou  must  not  go  : 
We  have  no  other  child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember.     Do  not  go  away ; 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  father,  he  will  die." 
The  youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice  ; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recovered  heart.     That  evening  her  best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work ; 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  spring  :  at  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  kinsman  came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  boy ; 
To  which  requests  were  added  that  forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.     Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over;  Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbours  round ; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.     When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  man  said  : 
"  He  shall  depart  to-morrow."     To  this  word 
The  housewife  answered,  talking  much  of  things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.     But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  sheepfold  ;  and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked  ; 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he  stopped, 
And  thus  the  old  man  spake  to  him  :  "  My  son, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me  :  with  full  heart 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 


William  TKIlor&swortb.  301 

Of  our  two  histories  ;  'twill  do  thee  good 

When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  speak 

Of  things  thou  canst  not  know  of.     After  thou 

First  earnest  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls 

To  new-born  infants — thou  didst  sleep  away 

Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  father's  tongue 

Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  passed  on, 

And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 

Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 

Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fireside 

First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tone ; 

When  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 

Sing  at  thy  mother's  breast.     Month  followed  month, 

And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 

And  on  the  mountains  ;  else  I  think  that  thou 

Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  father's  knees. 

But  we  were  playmates,  Luke :  among  these  hills, 

As  well  as  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 

Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 

Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 

Luke  had  a  manly  heart ;  but  at  these  words 

He  sobbed  aloud.     The  old  man  grasped  his  hand, 

And  said  :  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so  ;  I  see 

That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 

Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 

A  kind  and  a  good  father.     And  herein 

I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 

Received  at  others'  hands  ;  for,  though  now  old 

Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 

Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 

Both  of  them  sleep  together.     Here  they  lived 

As  all  their  forefathers  had  done,  and  when, 

At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loath 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 

I  wished  that  thou  shouldst  live  the  life  they  lived. 

But  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  son, 

And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 

These  fields  were  burdened  when  they  came  to  me  ; 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 

Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 

I  toiled  and  toiled.     God  blessed  me  in  my  work, 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 

It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 

Another  master.     Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 

That  thou  shouldst  go."     At  this  the  old  man  paused. 

Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which  they  stood, 


3°2  TOlHam  Tlillorfcswortb, 

Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed  : 
"  This  was  a  work  for  us  ;  and  now,  my  son, 
It  is  a  work  for  me.     But  lay  one  stone — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands. 
Nay,  boy,  be  of  good  hope  ;  we  both  may  live 
To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale.     Do  thou  thy  part ; 
•  I  will  do  mine.     I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to  thee. 
Up  to  the  heights  and  in  among  the  storms 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone 
Before  I  knew  thy  face.     Heaven  bless  thee,  boy  ! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 
With  many  hopes.     It  should  be  so.     Yes,  yes, 
I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke ;  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love.     When  thou  art  gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us  ?     But  I  forget 
My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone 
As  I  requested ;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  son, 
And  of  this  moment ;  hither  turn  thy  thoughts, 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee.     Amid  all  fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
Mayst  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  fathers  lived, 
Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.     Now,  fare  thee  well. 
When  thou  returnest,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here — a  covenant 
'Twill  be  between  us.     But  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 


The  shepherd  ended  here ;  and  Luke  stooped  down 
And,  as  his  father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  sheepfold.     At  the  sight 
The  old  man's  grief  broke  from  him  ;  to  his  heart 
He  pressed  his  son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
Hushed  was  that  house  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace, 
Ere  the  night  fell  :  with  morrow's  dawn  the  boy 
Began  his  journey;  and  when  he  had  reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face ; 
And  all  the  neighbours,  as  he  passed  their  doors, 


TCltlliam  TKHortewortb,  3°3 

Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  kinsman  come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing;  and  the  boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 
Which,  as  the  housewife  phrased  it,  were  throughout 
"  The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 
So,  many  months  passed  on  ;  and  once  again 
The  shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts  ;  and  now 
Sometimes,  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour, 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at  thesheepfold.     Meantime  Luke  began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty;  and,  at  length 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses  :   ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love ; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain  or  break  the  heart. 
1  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  old  man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.     Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  towards  the  sun, 
And  listened  to  the  wind ;  and,  as  before, 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labour  for  his  sheep, 
And  for  the  land  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hoilow  dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair  to  build  the  fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.     'Tis  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  man ;  and  'tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 

There,  by  the  sheepfold,  sometimes  was  he  seen, 
Sitting  alone,  with  that  his  faithful  dog, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time, 
He  at  the  building  of  this  sheepfold  wrought, 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 


3°4  IlKUlltam  IKliorfcewortb. 

Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 

Survive  her  husband.     At  her  death  the  estate 

Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 

The  cottage  which  was  named  The  Evening  Star 

Is  gone  ;  the  ploughshare  has  been  through  the  ground 

On  which  it  stood  ;  great  changes  have  been  wrought 

In  all  the  neighbourhood;  yet  the  oak  is  left 

That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  remains 

Of  the  unfinished  sheepfold  may  be  seen 

Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll. 

1800. 


LAODAMIA. 

[Written  at  Rydal  Mount.     The  incident  of  the  trees  growing  and  withering  put 
the  subject  into  my  thoughts.] 

«  With  sacrifice,  before  the  rising  morn 
Vows  have  I  made,  by  fruitless  hope  inspired  ; 
And  from  the  infernal  gods,  'mid  shades  forlorn, 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  lord  have  I  required; 
Celestial  pity  I  again  implore  ; — 
Restore  him  to  my  sight,  great  Jove,  restore !  " 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a  cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens  and  her  eye  expands, 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows, 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

O  terror !  what  hath  she  perceived  ?     O  joy ! 
What  doth  she  look  on — whom  doth  she  behold? 
Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy? 
His  vital  presence — his  corporeal  mould  ? 
It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not — 'tis  he ! 
And  a  God  leads  him— winged  Mercury! 

Mild  Hermes  spake,  and  touched  her  with  his  wand 

That  calms  all  fear  :  "  Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy  prayer, 

Laodamia,  that  at  Jove's  command 

Thy  husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air : 

He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours'  space ; 

Accept  the  gift ;  behold  him  face  to  face ! " 


William  Worfcswortb.  3°5 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  queen  her  lord  to  clasp; 

Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  ; 

But  unsubstantial  form  eludes  her  grasp 

As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  phantom  parts — but  parts  to  reunite 

And  reassume  his  place  before  her  sight. 

"  Protesilaus,  lo  !  thy  guide  is  gone  ! 
Confirm,  I  pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice : 
This  is  our  palace, — yonder  is  thy  throne  ; 
Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bostowed 
This  precious  boon, — and  blessed  a  sad  abode." 

"  Great  Jove,  Laodamia,  doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect : — Spectre  though  I  be, 
I  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive, 
But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 
And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain ; 
For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

"  Thou  know'st,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 

That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 

Should  die ;  but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold  : 

A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand ; 

And  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain; 

A  self-devoted  chief — by  Hector  slain." 

"  Supreme  of  heroes — bravest,  noblest,  best ! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more, 

Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  depressed 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 

Thou  found'st — and  I  forgive  thee — here  thou  art — 

A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

"  But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave ; 

And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 

That  thou  should'st  cheat  the  malice  of  the  grave ; 

Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 

As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 

"  No  spectre  greets  me, — no  vain  shadow  this : 
Come,  blooming  hero,  place  thee  by  my  side  ! 
Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day  a  second  time  thy  bride  !  " 
Jove  frowned  in  heaven  :  the  conscious  Parcae  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 


3°6  tlflUIlfam  llCiortswortb. 

"  This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past : 

Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even  if  the  joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 

And  surely  as  they  vanish. —  Earth  destroys 

Those  raptures  duly — Erebus  disdains  : 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide — majestic  pains. 

"  Be  taught,  O  faithful  consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion  ;  for  the  gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul ; 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 
Thy  transports  moderate  ;  and  meekly  mourn 
When  I  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn " 

"  Ah,  wherefore  ? — Did  not  Hercules  by  force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  monster  of  the  tomb 
Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse, 
Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  ? 
Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years, 
And  y£son  stood  a  youth  'mid  youthful  peers. 

"  The  gods  to  us  are  merciful — and  they 

Yet  further  may  relent  :  for  mightier  far 

Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 

Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 

Is  love — though  oft  to  agony  distressed  ; 

And  though  his  favourite  seat  be  feeble  woman's  breast. 

"  But  if  thou  goest,  I  follow "     "  Peace ! "  he  said- 
She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and  cheered ; 
The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled  : 
In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  appeared 
Elysian  beauty — melancholy  grace — 
Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure; 
No  fears  to  beat  away — no  strife  to  heal — 
The  past  unsigned  for,  and  the  future  sure; 
Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued  ; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous — imaged  there 

In  happier  beauty;  more  pellucid  streams, 

An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air, 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams ; 

Climes  which  the  sun,  that  sheds  the  brightest  day 

Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 


tlGUlliam  IKflorfcewortb.  3°7 

Yet  tliere  the  soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 

That  privilege  by  virtue. — "  111,"  said  he, 

"The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 

Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime, — day  and  night; 

"  And  while  my  youthful  peers,  before  my  eyes 
(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 
Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports, — or,  seated  in  the  tent, 
Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained  ; 
What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained. 

"  The  wished-for  wind  was  given  : — I  then  revolved 

The  Oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea ; 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 

That,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 

The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand, — 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

"  Yet  bitter,  ofttimes  bitter,  was  the  pang 

When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  beloved  wife; 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang, 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life, — 

The  paths  which  we  had  trod— these  fountains— flowers  ; 

My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 

"  But  should  suspense  permit  the  foe  to  cry, 
'  Behold,  they  tremble  ! — haughty  their  array, 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  ?  ' — 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away : 
Old  frailties  then  recurred  : — but  lofty  thought, 
In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

"  And  thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 

In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow; 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blessed  reunion  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathised  ; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnised. 

"  Learn  by  a  mortal  yearning  to  ascend 
Seeking  a  higher  object  :— Love  was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned  chiefly  for  that  end : 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven — 
That  self  might  be  annulled;  her  bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to  love." 


3°8  HHWHam  timorfcswortb. 

Aloud  she  shrieked — for  Hermes  reappears  ! 

Round  the  dear  shade  she  would  have  clung — 'tis  vain  : 

The  hours  are  past, — too  brief  had  they  been  years; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain : 

Swift  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day, 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way — 

And  on  the  palace  floor  a  lifeless  corse  she  lay. 

Thus,  all  in  vain  exhorted  and  reproved, 
She  perished,  and  as  for  a  wilful  crime 
By  the  just  gods  whom  no  weak  pity  moved, 
Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time, 
Apart  from  happy  Ghosts  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due  ; 
And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone 
As  fondly  he  believes. — Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 
A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 
From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died  ; 
And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 
That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 
The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight : 
A  constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight ! 

1814. 

FROM  MEMORIALS  OF  SCOTLAND. 


STEPPING  WESTWARD. 

[While  my  fellow-traveller,  my  sister  Dorothy,  and  I  were  walking  hy  the  side 
of  Loch  Katrine,  one  fine  evening  after  sunset,  we  met,  in  one  of  the  lone- 
liest parts  of  that  solitary  region,  two  well-dressed  women,  one  of  whom  said  to  us, 
by  way  of  greeting,  "  What,  you  are  stepping  westward  ?  "] 

"  What,  you  are  stepping  westward?  " — "  Yea." 

'Twould  be  a  wildish  destiny 

If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 

In  a  strange  land,  and  far  from  home, 

Were  in  this  place  the  guest  of  Chance  : 

Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 

Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 

With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on  ? 


HHUlKam  Tlfflovfcswortb.  3°9 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold  ; 
Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold  ; 
And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 
A  kind  of  heavenly  destiny. 
I  liked  the  greeting  ;  'twas  a  sound 
Of  something  without  place  or  bound, 
And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 
To  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 

Was  walking  by  her  native  lake  : 

The  salutation  had  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy  : 

Its  power  was  felt;  and  while  my  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  enwrought 

A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 

Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 

Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 


1803. 


II. 
TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL. 

AT   INVERSNAID,   UPON   LOCH  LOMOND. 

Sweet  Highland  girl,  a  very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower ! 
Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 
And  these  grey  rocks;  this  household  lawn  ; 
Those  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn; 
This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 
A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake  ; 
This  little  bay  ;  a  quiet  road, 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode— 
In  truth,  together  ye  do  seem 
Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream  ; 
Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 
But  O  fair  creature  !  in  the  light 
Of  common  say,  so  heavenly  bright, 
I  bless  thee,  vision  as  thou  art, 
I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart  ! 
God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years  ! 
Thee,  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers  ; 
And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 


3IQ  HUUlUam  Mortewortb. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away  : 
For  never  saw  I  mien  or  face, 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scattered,  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness  ; 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  mountaineer  : 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread! 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred  ! 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 
With  no  restraint  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech  ; 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind — 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee,  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 
Oh,  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell  ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  dress, 
A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess  ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality  : 
Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave    ■ 
Of  the  wild  sea ;  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 
Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 
Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be, 
Thy  father, — anything  to  thee  ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  gtace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 
Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 
I  bear  away  my  recompence. 
In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes  ; 
Then,  why  should  I  be  loath  to  stir? 


Iimtlliam  Tliaorfcswortb.  311 

I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her ; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I  loath,  though  pleased  at  heart, 

Sweet  Highland  girl  !  from  thee  to  part  : 

For  1,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 

And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all  ! 


1803. 


III. 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 
Oh,  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt 
Among  Arabian  sands  : 
— A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago  : 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending  ; — 


312  TNUIliam  TOortewortb* 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


1803. 


IV. 

GLEN-ALMA1N  ;  OR,  THE  NARROW  GLEN. 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men, 

Sleeps  Ossian,  in  the  "  Narrow  Glen  "  ; 

In  this  still  place,  where  murmurs  on 

But  one  meek  streamlet,  only  one  : 

He  sang  of  battles,  and  the  breath 

Of  stormy  war  and  violent  death  ; 

And  should,  methinks,  when  all  was  past, 

Have  rightfully  been  laid  at  last, 

Where  rocks  were  rudely  heaped,  and  rent 

As  by  a  spirit  turbulent. 

Where  sights  were  rough,  and  sounds  were  wild, 

And  everything  unreconciled  ; 

In  some  complaining,  dim  retreat, 

For  fear  and  melancholy  meet ; 

But  this  is  calm  ;  there  cannot  be 

A  more  entire  tranquillity. 

Does  then  the  bard  sleep  here  indeed  ? 
Or  is  it  but  a  groundless  creed  ? 
What  matters  it  ?— I  blame  them  not 
Whose  fancy  in  this  lonely  spot 
Was  moved  ;  and  in  this  way  expressed 
Their  notion  of  its  perfect  rest. 
A  convent,  even  a  hermit's  cell 
Would  break  the  silence  of  this  dell : 
It  is  not  quiet,  is  not  ease  ; 
But  something  deeper  far  than  these  ; 
The  separation  that  is  here 
Is  of  the  grave  ;  and  of  austere 
And  happy  feelings  of  the  dead  : 
And  therefore,  was  it  rightly  said 
That  Ossian,  last  of  all  his  race ! 
Lies  buried  in  this  lonely  place. 

1803. 


William  IWorDswortb.  313 

v. 
AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  BURNS,  1803. 

SEVEN    YEARS  AFTER   HIS   DEATH. 
(For  illustration  see  "  My  Sister's  Journal.") 

I  shiver,  spirit  fierce  and  bold, 

At  thought  of  what  I  now  behold  : 

As  vapours  breathed  from  dungeons  cold 

Strike  pleasure  dead, 
So  sadness  comes  from  out  the  mould 

Where  Burns  is  laid. 

And  have  I,  then,  thy  bones  so  near, 
And  thou  forbidden  to  appear  ? 
As  if  it  were  thyself  that's  here 

I  shrink  with  pain  ; 
And  both  my  wishes  and  my  fear 

Alike  are  vain. 

Off,  weight — nor  press  on  weight !    Away 
Dark  thoughts  ! — they  came,  but  not  to  stay ; 
With  chastened  feelings  would  I  pay 

The  tribute  due 
To  him,  and  aught  that  hides  his  clay 

From  mortal  view. 

Fresh  as  the  flower  whose  modest  worth 
He  sang,  his  genius  "  glinted  "  forth, 
Rose  like  a  star  that  touching  earth, 

For  so  it  seems, 
Doth  glorify  its  humble  birth 

With  matchless  beams. 

The  piercing  eye,  the  thoughtful  brow, 
The  struggling  heart,  where  be  they  now? 
Full  soon  the  aspirant  of  the  plough, 

The  prompt,  the  brave, 
Slept,  with  the  obscurest,  in  the  low 

And  silent  grave. 

I  mourned  with  thousands,  but  as  one 
Whose  light  I  hailed  when  first  it  shone, 
More  deeply  grieved,  for  he  was  gone 

And  showed  my  youth 
How  verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 

On  humble  truth. 


3H  William  TIClorOswortb. 

Alas  !  where'er  the  current  tends, 
Regret  pursues  and  with  it  blends — 
Huge  Criffel's  hoary  top  ascends 

By  Skiddaw  seen  : 
Neighbours  we  were,  and  loving  friends 

We  might  have  been  ; 

True  friends  though  diversely  inclined  ; 
But  heart  with  heart  and  mind  with  mind, 
Where  the  main  fibres  are  entwined, 

Through  Nature's  skill, 
May  even  by  contraries  be  joined 

More  closely  still. 

The  tear  will  start,  and  let  it  flow  ; 
Thou  "  poor  inhabitant  below," 
At  this  dread  moment — even  so — 

Might  we  together 
Have  sat  and  talked  where  gowans  blow, 

Or  on  wild  heather. 

What  treasures  would  have  then  been  placed 
Within  my  reach  ;  of  knowledge  graced 
By  fancy  what  a  rich  repast ! 

But  why  go  on  ? 
Oh  !  spare  to  sweep,  thou  mournful  blast, 

His  grave  grass-grown. 

There,  too,  a  son,  his  joy  and  pride 
(Not  three  weeks  past  the  stripling  died), 
Lies  gathered  to  his  father's  side, 

Soul-moving  sight  ! 
Yet  one  to  which  is  not  denied 

Some  sad  delight: 

For  he  is  safe,  a  quiet  bed 

Hath  early  found  among  the  dead, 

Harboured  where  none  can  be  misled, 

Wronged  or  distrest ; 
And  surely  here  it  may  be  said 

That  such  are  ble*st. 

And  oh  for  thee,  by  pitying  grace 
Checked  ofttimes  in  a  devious  race, 
May  He  who  halloweth  the  place 

Where  man  is  laid 
Receive  thy  spirit  in  the  embrace 

For  which  it  prayed  ! 


TNUUfam  TDClorfcswortb.  3Z5 

Sighing,  I  turned  away  ;  but  ere 
Night  fell,  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 
Music  that  sorrow  comes  not  near — 

A  ritual  hymn, 
Chanted  in  love  that  casts  out  fear 

By  seraphim. 

1803. 

VI. 

THOUGHTS. 

SUGGESTED   THE   DAY   FOLLOWING,   ON   THE   BANKS  OF 
NITH,   NEAR  THE  POET'S   RESIDENCE. 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow 

That  must  have  followed  when  his  brow 

Was  wreathed — "  The  Vision  "  tells  us  how — 

With  holly  spray, 
He  faltered,  drifted  to  and  fro, 

And  passed  away. 

Well  might  such  thoughts,  dear  sister,  throng 
Our  minds  when,  lingering  all  too  long, 
Over  the  grave  of  Burns  we  hung 

In  social  grief — 
Indulged  as  if  it  were  a  wrong 

To  seek  relief. 

But,  leaving  each  unquiet  theme 

Where  gentlest  judgments  may  misdeem, 

And  prompt  to  welcome  every  gleam 

Of  good  and  fair, 
Let  us  beside  this  limpid  stream 

Breathe  hopeful  air. 

Enough  of  sorrow,  wreck,  and  blight : 
Think  rather  of  those  moments  bright 
When  to  the  consciousness  of  right 

His  course  was  true, 
When  wisdom  prospered  in  his  sight 

And  virtue  grew. 

Yes,  freely  let  our  hearts  expand, 
Freely  as  in  youth's  season  bland, 
When  side  by  side,  his  book  in  hand, 

We  wont  to  stray, 
Our  pleasure  varying  at  command 

Of  each  sweet  lay. 


3l6  William  TKIlorfcswortb. 

How  oft  inspired  must  he  have  trod 
These  path-ways,  yon  far-stretching  road ! 
There  lurks  his  home ;  in  that  abode, 

With  mirth  elate, 
Or  in  his  nobly  pensive  mood, 

The  rustic  sate. 


Proud  thoughts  that  image  overawes, 

Before  it  humbly  let  us  pause, 

And  ask  of  Nature  from  what  cause 

And  by  what  rules 
She  trained  her  Burns  to  win  applause 

That  shames  the  schools. 


Through  busiest  street  and  loneliest  glen 

Are  felt  the  flashes  of  his  pen  : 

He  rules  'mid  winter  snows,  and  when 

Bees  fill  their  hives  ; 
Deep  in  the  general  heart  of  men 

His  power  survives. 


What  need  of  fields  in  some  far  clime 
Where  heroes,  sages,  bards  sublime, 
And  all  that  fetched  the  flowing  rhyme 

From  genuine  springs, 
Shall  dwell  together  till  old  Time 

Folds  up  his  wings  ? 


Sweet  Mercy  !  to  the  gates  of  heaven 
This  minstrel  lead,  his  sins  forgiven  ; 
The  rueful  conflict,  the  heart  riven 

With  vain  endeavour, 
And  memory  of  earth's  bitter  leaven 

Effaced  forever. 


But  why  to  him  confine  the  prayer, 

When  kindred  thoughts  and  yearnings  bear 

On  the  frail  heart  the  purest  share- 

With  all  that  live  ? 
The  best  of  what  we  do  and  are, 

Just  God,  forgive  ! 

1803. 


VII. 

YARROW  UNVISITED. 

(See   various   poems   the   scene  of   which  is  laid  upon    the  banks  of  the  Yarrow; 
:n  particular  the  exquisite  ballad  of  Hamilton,  beginning — 

"  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride, 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  Marrow  !  ") 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 

The  mazy  Forth  unravell'd  ; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 

And  with  the  Tweed  had  travell'd; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 

Then  said  my  "  winsome  Marrow,'* 
"  What'er  betide,  we'll  turn  aside, 

And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

"  Let  Yarrow  io\k,frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 
Go  back  to  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own  ; 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling  ! 
On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow ! 
But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow  ! 

"  There's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us ; 
And  Dryburgh,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 

The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus  ; 
There's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow  ; 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

"  What's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare, 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 
There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 
Strange  words  they  seem'd  of  slight  and  scorn ; 

My  true  love  sigh'd  for  sorrow, 
And  look'd  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

"  Oh  !  green,"  said  I,  "  are  Yarrow's  holms, 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  ! 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 


3*8  TlCUlltam  Mortewortb. 

O'er  hilly  path  and  open  strath 
We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough ; 

But  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

"  Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 

The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow  ; 
The  swan  on  still  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 
We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go 

To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow ; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 

There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it ; 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  : 

Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it  ? 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow ! 
For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair, 

'Twill  be  another  Yarrow. 

"  If  care  witfi  freezing  years  should  come, 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly, — 
Should  we  be  loath  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy  ; 
Should  life  be  dull  and  spirits  low, 

'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 
That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  !  " 

1803. 

VIII. 

YARROW  VISITED. 

And  is  this — Yarrow  ? — this  the  stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherish'd, 
So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perish 'd  ! 
Oh,  that  some  ministrel's  harp  were  near, 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 
And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness ! 


IKlUUam  Wortewortb*  3l9 

Yet  why? — a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontrolled  meanderings; 
Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 
And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted, 
For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 


A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  Vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 
Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness: 
Mild  dawn  of  promise !  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection  ; 
Though  not  unwilling  here  t'  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding  ? 
His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding; 
And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 
The  water-wraith  ascended  thrice, 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  lay  that  sings 

The  haunts  of  happy  lovers, 
The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers ; 
And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 

That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 
The  unconquerable  strength  of  love; 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 
Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation  : 
Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy  ; 
The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 


32°  TKMlliam  Worfcewortb. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 
With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature ; 
And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves. 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary  ! 
The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  towers, 

Renowned  in  border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in  ; 
For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength  ; 

And  age  to  wear  away  in  ! 
Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 
Of  tender  thoughts  that  nestle  there — 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day, 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 
And  on  my  true  love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather  ! 
And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own  ! 

'Twere  no  offence  to  reason ; 
The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see — but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee ; 
A  ray  of  fancy  still  survives — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee  ! 
Thy  ever  youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure  ; 
And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe, 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  heights, 

They  melt  and  soon  must  vanish  ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine — 

Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 

Thine  genuine  image,  Yarrow  ! 
Will  dwell  with  me— to  heighten  joy, 

And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 


1814. 


TUillfam  IKllortewortb.  321 

IX. 

YARROW   REVISITED. 

[The  following  stanzas  are  a  memorial  of  a  day  passed  with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and 
other  friends  visiting  the  banks  of  the  Yarrow  under  his  guidance,  immediately 
before  his  departure  from  Abbotsford  for  Naples.] 

The  gallant  youth,  who  may  have  gained, 

Or  seeks,  a  "  winsome  Marrow," 
Was  but  an  infant  in  the  lap 

When  first  I  looked  on  Yarrow  ; 
Once  more,  by  Newark's  castle-gate 

Long  left  without  a  warder, 
I  stood,  looked,  listened,  and  with  thee, 

Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border  ! 

Grave  thoughts  ruled  wide  on  that  sweet  day, 

Their  dignity  installing 
In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 

Were  on  the  bough  or  falling ; 
But  breezes  played,  and  sunshine  gleamed, 

The  forest  to  embolden  ; 
Reddened  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 

Transparence  through  the  golden. 

For  busy  thoughts  the  stream  flowed  on 

In  foamy  agitation  ; 
And  slept  in  many  a  crystal  pool 

For  quiet  contemplation. 
No  public  and  no  private  care 

The  freeborn  mind  enthralling, 
We  made  a  day  of  happy  hours, 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk  youth  appeared,  the  morn  of  youth, 

With  freaks  of  graceful  folly — 
Life's  temperate  noon,  her  sober  eve, 

Her  night  not  melancholy  ; 
Past,  present,  future,  all  appeared 

In  harmony  united, 
Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from  far, 

By  cordial  love  invited. 

And  if,  as  Yarrow,  through  the  woods 

And  down  the  meadow  ranging, 
Did  meet  us  with  unaltered  face, 

Though  we  were  changed  and  changing  ; 


322  millfam  TlWorDawortb* 

If,  then,  some  natural  shadows  spread 

Our  inward  prospect  over, 
The  soul's  deep  valley  was  not  slow 

Its  brightness  to  recover. 

Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment! 
The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  sons 

For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment  ; 
Albeit  sickness,  lingering  yet, 

Has  o'er  their  pillow  brooded  ; 
And  Care  waylays  their  steps— a  sprite 

Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O  Scott !  compelled  to  change 

Green  Eildon-hill  and  Cheviot 
For  warm  Vesuvio's  vine-clad  slopes, 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  andTiviot 
For  mild  Sorrento's  breezy  waves  ; 

May  classic  fancy,  linking 
With  native  fancy  her  fresh  aid, 

Preserve  thy  heart  from  sinking  ! 

Oh  !  while  they  minister  to  thee, 

Each  vying  with  the  other, 
May  Health  return  to  mellow  age 

With  Strength,  her  venturous  brother ; 
And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
With  unimagined  beauty  shine, 

Nor  lose  one  ray  of  glory  ! 

For  thou,  upon  a  hundred  streams, 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 
Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow; 
And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseen, 

Wherever  they  invite  thee, 
At  parent  Nature's  grateful  call, 

With  gladness  must  requite  thee. 

A  gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine, 
Such  looks  of  love  and  honour 

As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 
When  first  I  gazed  upon  her ; 


TKHWiam  WorSswortb.  3*3 

Beheld  what  I  feared  to  see, 

Unwilling  to  surrender 
Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days, 

The  holy  and  the  tender. 


And  what,  for  this  frail  world,  were  all 

That  mortals  do  or  suffer, 
Did  no  responsive  harp,  no  pen, 

Memorial  tribute  offer  ? 
Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature's  self? 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us, 
Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 

That  hourly  speaks  within  us  ? 


Nor  deem  that  localised  romance 

Plays  false  with  our  affections  ; 
Unsanctifies  our  tears — made  sport 

For  fanciful  dejections  : 
Ah  no  !  the  visions  of  the  past 

Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is — our  changeful  life — 

With  friends  and  kindred  dealing. 


Bear  witness,  ye,  whose  thoughts  that  day 

In  Yarrow's  groves  were  centred  ; 
Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 

Of  mouldering  Newark  entered  ; 
And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 

Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  "  last  minstrel  "  (not  the  last !) 

Ere  he  his  tale  recounted. 


Flow  on  forever,  Yarrow  stream  ! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty, 
Well  pleased  that  future  bards  should  chant 

For  simple  hearts  thy  beauty  ; 
To  dream-light  dear  while  yet  unseen, 

Dear  to  the  common  sunshine, 
And  dearer  still,  as  now  I  feel, 

To  memory's  shadowy  moonshine  ! 

1831. 


324  TOUUfam  llWorDswortb. 

MEMORIES  OF  DEPARTED  FRIENDS. 
(From  "  Effusion  upon  the  Death  of  James  Hogg") 

When  first,  descending  from  the  moorlands, 
I  saw  the  stream  of  Yarrow  glide 

Along  a  bare  and  open  valley, 

The  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  my  guide. 

When  last  along  its  banks  I  wandered 
Through  groves  that  had  begun  to  shed 

Their  golden  leaves  upon  the  pathways 
My  steps  the  Border-minstrel  led. 

The  mighty  minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 
Mid  mouldering  ruins  low  he  lies  ; 

And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow 
Has  closed  the  shepherd-poet's  eyes  ; 

Nor  has  the  rolling  year  twice  measured, 
From  sign  to  sign,  its  steadfast  course, 

Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source ; 

The  rapt  one,  of  the  god-like  forehead, 
The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth ; 

And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle, 
Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth. 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 

How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land  ! 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 

A  timid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 
"  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear  ?  ' 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  darkness 
Like  London  with  its  own  black  wreath, 

On  which  with  thee,  O  Crabbe  ! — forthlooking 
I  gazed  from  Hampstead's  breezy  heath. 


TlXHiUiam  TOortewortb.  325 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed, 

Thou,  too,  art  gone  before  ;  but  why 

O'er  ripe  fruit,  seasonably  gathered, 
Should  frail  survivors  heave  a  sigh  ? 


1835. 


MEMORIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


From  my  pillow,  looking  forth  by  light 

Of  moon  or  favouring  stars,  I  could  behold 

The  antechapel  where  the  statue  stood 

Of  Newton,  with  his  prism  and  silent  face, 

The  marble  index  of  a  mind  forever 

Voyaging  through  strange  seas  of  Thought,  alone. 

I  could  not  print 

Ground  where  the  grass  had  yielded  to  the  steps 

Of  generations  of  illustrious  men, 

Unmoved.     I  could  not  lightly  pass 

Through  the  same  gateways,  sleep  where  they  had  slept, 

Wake  where  they  waked,  range  that  enclosure  old, 

That  garden  of  great  intellects,  undisturbed. 

I  laughed  with  Chaucer  in  the  hawthorn  shade ; 
Heard  him,  while  birds  were  warbling,  tell  his  tales 
Of  amorous  passion.     And  that  gentle  bard 
Chosen  by  the  Muses  for  their  Page  of  State — 
Sweet  Spenser,  moving  through  his  clouded  heaven 
With  the  moon's  beauty  and  the  moon's  soft  pace, 
I  called  him  brother,  Englishman  and  friend  ! 
Yea,  our  blind  poet,  who  in  his  later  day, 
Stood  almost  single ;  uttering  odious  truth, — 
Darkness  before,  and  danger's  voice  behind,^ 
I  seemed  to  see  him  here 
Familiarly,  and  in  his  scholar's  dress 
Bounding  before  me. 

Prelude.     Book  III. 


TO  HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 

SIX  YEARS  OLD. 

O  Thou  !  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought ; 
Who  of  thy  words  dost  make  a  mock  apparel, 
And  fittest  to  unutterable  thought 
The  breeze-like  motion  and  the  self-born  carol; 


32&  William  UGlorDswortb* 

Thou  faery  voyager  !  that  dost  float 

In  such  clear  water,  that  thy  boat 

May  rather  seem 

To  brood  on  air  than  on  an  earthly  stream  ; 

Suspended  in  a  stream  as  clear  as  sky, 

Where  earth  and  heaven  do  make  one  imagery; 

0  blessed  vision  !  happy  child ! 
That  art  so  exquistely  wild, 

1  think  of  thee  with  many  fears 

For  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 

I  thought  of  times  when  pain  might  be  thy  guest, 

Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality ; 

And  grief,  uneasy  lover!  never  rest 

But  when  she  sate  within  the  touch  of  thee. 

Oh  !  too  industrious  folly ! 

Oh  !  vain  and  causeless  melancholy  ! 

Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite  ; 

Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 

Preserve  for  thee,  by  individual  right, 

A  young  lamb's  heart  among  the  full-grown  flocks, 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  sorrow, 

Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  ? 

Thou  art  a  dewdrop,  which  the  morn  brings  forth, 

111  fitted  to  sustain  unkindly  shocks ; 

Or  to  be  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth  ; 

A  gem  that  glitters  while  it  lives, 

And  no  forewarning  gives  ; 

But,  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  without  a  strife 

Slips  in  a  moment  out  of  life. 


1802. 


EVENING  VOLUNTARIES. 


Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loath  to  lose 

Day's  grateful  warmth,  though  moist  with  falling  dews. 

Look  for  the  stars,  you'll  say  that  there  are  none ; 

Look  up  a  second  time,  and,  one  by  one, 

You  mark  them  twinkling  out  with  silvery  light, 

And  wonder  how  they  could  elude  the  sight  ! 

The  birds  of  late  so  noisy  in  their  bowers, 

Warbled  a  while  with  faint  and  fainter  powers, 

But  now  are  silent  as  the  dim-seen  flowers.  .  . 


milfam  TlMorfcewortb.  327 

A  stream  is  heard,  I  see  it  not,  but  know 
By  its  soft  music  whence  the  waters  flow : 
Wheels  and  the  tread  of  hoofs  are  heard  no  more ; 
One  boat  there  was,  but  it  will  touch  the  shore 
With  the  next  dipping  of  its  slackened  oar  ; 
Faint  sound,  that,  for  the  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Might  give  to  serious  thoughts  a  moment's  sway, 
As  a  last  token  of  man's  toilsome  day ! 

1832. 


II. 

ON  A  HIGH  PART  OF  THE  COAST  OF  CUMBERLAND  (EASTER 
SUNDAY,  APRIL  7),  THE  AUTHOR'S  SIXTY-THIRD 
BIRTHDAY. 

The  sun,  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire, 
Flung  back  from  distant  climes  a  streaming  fire. 
Whose  blaze  is  now  subdued  to  tender  gleams, 
Prelude  of  night's  approach  with  soothing  dreams. 
Look  round — of  all  the  clouds  not  one  is  moving; 
'Tis  the  still  hour  of  thinking,  feeling,  loving. 
Silent  and  steadfast  as  the  vaulted  sky, 
The  boundless  plain  of  waters  seems  to  lie  : 
Comes  that  low  sound  from  breezes  rustling  o'er 
The  grass-crowned  headland  that  conceals  the  shore  ? 
No  ;  'tis  the  earth-voice  of  the  mighty  sea, 
Whispering  how  meek  and  gentle  he  can  be  ! 

Thou  Power  Supreme  !  who,  arming  to  rebuke 
Offenders,  dost  put  off  the  gracious  look, 
And  clothe  thyself  with  terrors  like  the  flood 
Of  ocean  roused  into  his  fiercest  mood, 
Whatever  discipline  thy  Will  ordain 
For  the  brief  course  that  must  for  me  remain, 
Teach  me  with  quick-eared  spirit  to  rejoice 
In  admonitions  of  thy  softest  voice  ! 
Whate'er  the  path  these  mortal  feet  may  trace, 
Breathe  through  my  soul  the  blessing  of  thy  grace, 
Glad,  through  a  perfect  love,  a  faith  sincere, 
Drawn  from  the  wisdom  that  begins  with  fear ; 
Glad  to  expand  ;  and,  for  a  season,  free 
From  finite  cares,  to  rest  absorbed  in  Thee ! 

1833. 


328  TOilllam  TOorDawortb. 


Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 

That  come  but  as  a  curse  to  party  strife ; 

Not  in  some  hour  when  Pleasure  with  a  sigh 

Of  languor  puts  his  rosy  garland  by  ; 

Not  in  the  breathing-times  of  that  poor  slave 

Who  daily  piles  up  wealth  in  Mammon's  cave — 

Is  Nature  felt,  or  can  be  ;  nor  do  words, 

Which  practised  talent  readily  affords, 

Prove  that  her  hand  has  touched  responsive  chords  ; 

Nor  has  her  gentle  beauty  power  to  move 

With  genuine  rapture  and  with  fervent  love 

The  soul  of  Genius,  if  he  dare  to  take 

Life's  rule  from  passion  craved  for  passion's  sake  ; 

Untaught  that  meekness  is  the  cherished  bent 

Of  all  the  truly  great  and  all  the  innocent. 

But  who  is  innocent  ?     By  grace  divine — 

Not  otherwise,  O  Nature  ! — we  are  thine, 

Through  good  and  evil  thine,  in  just  degree 

Of  rational  and  manly  sympathy. 

To  all  that  earth  from  pensive  heart  is  stealing, 

And  heaven  is  now  to  gladdened  eyes  revealing, 

Add  every  charm  the  universe  can  show 

Through  every  change  its  aspects  undergo — 

Care  may  be  respited,  but  not  repealed  ; 

No  perfect  cure  grows  on  that  bounded  field. 

Vain  is  the  pleasure,  a  false  calm  the  peace, 

If  He  through  whom  alone  our  conflicts  cease, 

Our  virtuous  hopes  without  relapse  advance, 

Come  not  to  speed  the  soul's  deliverance  ; 

To  the  distempered  intellect  refuse 

His  gracious  help,  or  give  what  wTe  abuse. 


1834. 


DEVOTIONAL  INCITEMENTS. 

"  Not  to  the  earth  confined, 
Ascend  to  heaven." 

Where  will  they  stop,  those  breathing  Powers, 
The  spirits  of  the  new-born  flowers  ? 
They  wander  with  the  breeze,  they  wind 
Where'er  the  streams  a  passage  find  ; 
Up  from  their  native  ground  they  rise 
In  mute  aerial  harmonies ; 


William  TOor&swortb.  329 

From  humble  violet,  modest  thyme, 

Exhaled,  the  essential  odours  climb, 

As  if  no  space  below  the  sky 

Their  subtle  flight  could  satisfy  : 

Heaven  will  not  tax  our  thoughts  with  pride 

If  like  ambition  be  their  guide. 

Roused  by  this  kindliest  of  May  showers, 
The  spirit-quickener  of  the  flowers, 
That  with  moist  virtue  softly  cleaves 
The  buds,  and  freshens  the  young  leaves, 
The  birds  pour  forth  their  souls  in  notes 
Of  rapture  from  a  thousand  throats — 
Here  checked  by  too  impetuous  haste, 
While  there  the  music  runs  to  waste, 
With  bounty  more  and  more  enlarged, 
Till  the  whole  air  is  overcharged  ; 
Give  ear,  O  Man  !  to  their  appeal, 
And  thirst  for  no  inferior  zeal, 
Thou,  who  canst  think  as  well  as  feel. 

Mount  from  the  earth  ;  aspire  !  aspire  ! 
So  pleads  the  town's  cathedral  quire, 
In  strains  that  from  their  solemn  height 
Sink,  to  attain  a  loftier  flight ; 
While  incense  from  the  altar  breathes 
Rich  fragrance  in  embodied  wreaths ; 
Or,  flung  from  swinging  censer,  shrouds 
The  taper-lights,  and  curls  in  clouds 
Around  angelic  forms,  the  still 
Creation  of  the  painter's  skill, 
That  on  the  service  wait  concealed 
One  moment,  and  the  next  revealed. 
— Cast  off  your  bonds,  awake,  arise, 
'  And  for  no  transient  ecstasies  ! 
What  else  can  mean  the  visual  plea 
Of  still  or  moving  imagery — 
The  iterated  summons  loud, 
Not  wasted  on  the  attendant  crowd, 
Nor  wholly  lost  upon  the  throng 
Hurrying  the  busy  streets  along  ? 

Alas  !  the  sanctities  combined 
By  art  to  unsensualise  the  mind, 
Decay  and  languish  ;  or,  as  creeds 
And  humours  change,  are  spurned  like  weeds; 


33°  Timfllfam  TlXllorfcewortb. 

The  priests  are  from  their  altars  thrust ; 

Temples  are  levelled  with  the  dust ; 

And  solemn  rites  and  awful  forms 

Founder  amid  fanatic  storms. 

Yet  evermore,  through  years  renewed 

In  undisturbed  vicissitude 

Of  seasons  balancing  their  flight 

On  the  swift  wings  of  day  and  night, 

Kind  Nature  keeps  a  heavenly  door 

Wide  open  for  the  scattered  poor. 

Where  flower-breathed  incense  to  the  skies 

Is  wafted  in  mute  harmonies ; 

And  ground  fresh-cloven  by  the  plough 

Is  fragrant  with  a  humbler  vow  ; 

Where  birds  and  brooks  from  leafy  dells 

Chime  forth  unwearied  canticles, 

And  vapours  magnify  and  spread 

The  glory  of  the  sun's  bright  head — 

Still  constant  in  her  worship,  still 

Conforming  to  the  Eternal  Will, 

Whether  men  sow  or  reap  the  fields, 

Divine  monition  Nature  yields, 

That  not  by  bread  alone  we  live, 

Or  what  a  hand  of  flesh  Can  give ; 

That  every  day  should  leave  some  part 

Free  for  a  sabbath  of  the  heart ; 

So  shall  the  seventh  be  truly  blest, 

From  morn  to  eve  with  hallowed  rest. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 

[Supposed  to  be  found  in  and  near  a  hermit's  cell.] 


Hopes  what  are  they  ?    Beads  of  morning 
Strung  on  slender  blades  of  grass  : 

Or  a  spider's  web  adorning 

In  a  straight  and  treacherous  pass. 

What  are  fears  but  voices  airy  ? 

Whisperings  where  harm  is  not : 
And  deluding  the  unwary 

Till  the  fatal  bolt  is  shot ! 


1832 


TOtlliam  TClorfcewortb.  33* 

What  is  glory  ?  in  the  socket 

See  how  dying  tapers  fare  ! 
What  is  pride  ? — A  whizzing  rocket 

That  would  emulate  a  star. 

What  is  friendship  ?— do  not  trust  her, 

Nor  the  vow  which  she  has  made  ; 
Diamonds  dart  their  brightest  lustre 

From  a  palsy-shaken  head. 

What  is  truth  ? — a  staff  rejected  ; 

Duty  ? — an  unwelcome  clog  ; 
Joy  ? — A  moon  by  fits  reflected 

In  a  swamp  or  watery  bog  ; 

Bright,  as  if  through  ether  steering, 

To  the  traveller's  eye  it  shone : 
He  hath  hailed  it  reappearing — 

And  as  quickly  it  is  gone  ; 

Such  is  joy — as  quickly  hidden, 

Or  misshapen  to  the  sight, 
And  by  sullen  weeds  forbidden 

To  resume  its  native  light. 

What  is  youth  ?— a  dancing  billow, 

(Winds  behind,  and  rocks  before  !) 
Age? — a  drooping,  tottering  willow 

On  a  flat  and  lazy  shore. 

What  is  peace  ? — When  pain  is  over, 

And  love  ceases  to  rebel, 
Let  the  last  faint  sight  discover 

That  precedes  the  passing  knell  ! 

1818 


Hast  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant, 

Bubbles  gliding  under  ice, 
Bodied  forth  and  evanescent, 

No  one  knows  by  what  device  ? 

Such  are  thoughts — A  wind-swept  meadow 

Mimicking  a  troubled  sea, 
Such  is  life  ;  and  death  a  shadow 

From  the  rock  eternity ! 

181S 


332  milUam  Wotbswottb. 


Troubled  long  with  warring  notions, 
Long  impatient  of  thy  rod, 

I  resign  my  soul's  emotions, 
Unto  Thee,  mysterious  God  ! 

What  avails  the  kindly  shelter 
Yielded  by  this  craggy  rent, 

If  my  spirit  toss  and  welter, 
On  the  waves  of  discontent  ? 

Parching  Summer  hath  no  warrant 
To  consume  this  crystal  Well; 

Rains,  that  make  each  rill  a  torrent, 
Neither  sully  it  nor  swell. 

Thus,  dishonouring  not  her  station, 
Would  my  Life  present  to  thee, 

Gracious  God,  the  poor  oblation 
Of  divine  tranquillity! 


IV. 

Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest, 
Deceitfully  goes  forth  the  morn  ; 

Not  seldom  evening  in  the  west 
Sinks  smilingly  forsworn. 

The  smoothest  seas  will  sometimes  prove, 
To  the  confiding  bark  untrue ; 

And,  if  she  trust  the  stars  above, 
They  can  be  treacherous  too. 

The  umbrageous  oak,  in  pomp  outspread 
Full  oft,  when  storms  the  welkin  rend, 

Draws  lightning  down  upon  the  head 
It  promised  to  defend. 

But  Thou  art  true,  incarnate  Lord, 
Who  didst  vouchsafe  for  man  to  die; 

Thy  smile  is  sure,  thy  plighted  word 
No  change  can  falsify ! 


1818. 


TWItlHam  TKflorDswortb,  333 

I  bent  before  thy  gracious  throne, 

And  asked  for  peace  on  suppliant  knee ; 

And  peace  was  given, — nor  peace  alone, 
But  faith  sublimed  to  ecstacy  ! 


1818. 


STRAY  SELECTIONS. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts  ! 

Of  humblest  friends,  bright  creature,  scorn  not  one, 
The  Daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 

Protects  the  lingering  dew-drop  from  the  Sun. 

1834. 

II. 

"  MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP." 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky. 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began  ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

1802. 

III. 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

WHO  HAD  BEEN  REPROACHED  FOR  TAKING 
LONG  WALKS  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Dear  child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail ! 
There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbour  and  a  hold, 
Where  thou,  a  wife  and  friend,  shalt  see. 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 

A  light  to  young  and  old, 


334  limwiam  Tiatortewortb* 

There  healthy  as  a  shepherd-boy, 
And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy 

Which  at  no  season  fade, 
Thou,  while  thy  babes  around  thee  cling, 
Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 

A  woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not  die, 
Nor  leave  thee,  when  gray  hairs  are  nigh, 

A  melancholy  slave ; 
But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 

Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 

1805. 

IV. 

FROM  THE  TABLES  TURNED. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings; 

Our  meddling  intellect 
Misshapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things  : 

We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  science  and  of  art ; 

Close  up  these  barren  leaves : 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 

1798. 
v. 

FROM  EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY. 

-    The  eye,  it  cannot  choose  but  see  ; 
We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
Against  or  with  our  will. 

Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress; 

That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 

Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 

But  we  must  still  be  seeking  ? 


SWIFTLY   TURN    THE   MURMURING  WHEEL. 

—Page  335. 


William  TlXHorfcswortb*  335 

Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 

Conversing  as  I  may, 
I  sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone 
And  dream  my  time  away. 

1798. 
VI. 

TO  LADY  FLEMING. 

Lives  there  a  man  whose  sole  delights 

Are  trivial  pomp  and  city  noise, 
Hardening  a  heart  that  loathes  or  slights 

What  every  natural  heart  enjoys  ? 
Who  never  caught  a  noontide  dream 
From  murmur  of  a  running  stream  ; 
Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospects  yields 
To  him,  their  verdure  from  the  fields  ; 
And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 
In  which  the  sun  his  setting  shrouds. 

A  soul  so  pitiably  forlorn 

If  such  do  on  this  earth  abide, 
May  season  apathy  with  scorn, 

May  turn  indifference  to  pride ; 
And  still  be  not  unblest,  compared 
With  him  who  grovels,  self-debarred 
From  all  that  lies  within  the  scope 
Of  holy  faith  and  Christian  hope ; 
Yea,  strives  for  others  to  bedim 
The  glorious  light  too  pure  for  him. 


1823. 


VII. 

SONG  FOR  THE  SPINNING  WHEEL. 

Swiftly  turn  the  murmuring  wheel ! 

Night  has  brought  the  welcome  hour, 
When  the  weary  fingers  feel 

Help,  as  if  from  faery  power ; 
Dewy  night  o'ershades  the  ground  : 
Turn  the  swift  wheel  round  and  round  ! 

Now,  beneath  the  starry  sky, 

Couch  the  widely-scattered  sheep  ; — 

Ply  the  pleasant  labour,  ply ! 

For  the  spindle,  while  they  sleep, 

Runs  with  speed  more  smooth  and  fine, 

Gathering  up  a  trustier  line. 


33&  TOlUam  Morfcswortb, 

Short-lived  likings  may  be  bred 
By  a  glance  from  fickle  eyes ; 

But  true  love  is  like  the  thread 
Which  the  kindly  wool  supplies, 

When  the  flocks  are  all  at  rest 

Sleeping  on  the  mountain's  breast. 


1812. 


VIII. 

A  NIGHT-PIECE. 

The  sky  is  overcast 
With  a  continuous  cloud  of  texture  close, 
Heavy  and  wan,  all  whitened  by  the  moon, 
Which  through  that  vale  is  indistinctly  seen, 
A  dull  contracted  circle,  yielding  light 
So  feebly  spread  that  not  a  shadow  falls, 
Chequering  the  ground,  from  rock,  plant,  tree  or  tower. 
At  length  a  pleasant  instantaneous  gleam 
Startles  the  pensive  traveller  while  he  treads 
His  lonesome  path,  with  unobserving  eye 
Bent  earthwards  ;  he  looks  up, — the  clouds  are  split 
Asunder, — and  above  his  head  he  sees 
The  clear  moon,  and  the  glory  of  the  heavens. 
There,  in  a  black-blue  vault  she  sails  along, 
Followed  by  multitudes  of  stars,  that,  small, 
And  sharp,  and  bright,  along  the  dark  abyss 
Drives  as  she  drives  :  how  fast  they  wheel  away, 
Yet  vanish  not ! — the  wind  is  in  the  tree, 
But  they  are  silent ;  still  they  roll  along 
Immeasurably  distant;  and  the  vault, 
Built  round  by  those  white  clouds,  enormous  clouds, 
Still  deepens  its  unfathomable  depth. 
At  length  the  vision  closes  ;  and  the  mind, 
Not  undisturb'd  by  the  delight  it  feels, 
Which  slowly  settles  into  peaceful  calm. 
Is  left  to  muse  upon  the  solemn  scene. 


1798. 


IX. 

THE  MOON. 

Yes,  lovely  moon  !  if  thou  so  mildly  bright 
Dost  rouse,  yet  surely  in  thy  own  despite, 
To  fiercer  mood  the  phrensy-stricken  brain, 
Let  me  a  compensating  faith  maintain, 


William  Wor&swortb.  337 

That  there's  a  sensitive,  a  tender,  part 
Which  thou  canst  touch  in  every  human  heart, 
For  healing  and  composure. 

1835. 
X. 

THE  ECHO. 

(From  "Lines  to  Johanna") 

.    .    .   Johanna  laughed  aloud.    .   . 
The  rock  like  something  starting  from  a  sleep, 
Took  up  the  lady's  voice,  and  laughed  again  ; 
That  ancient  woman  seated  on  Helm-crag 
Was  ready  with  her  cavern  ;  Hammer-scar 
And  the  tall  steep  of  Silver-how,  sent  forth 
A  noise  of  laughter;  southern  Loughrigg  heard, 
And  Fairfield  answered  with  a  mountain  tone ; 
Helvellyn  far  into  the  clear  blue  sky 
Carried  the  lady's  voice,  old  Skiddaw  blew 
His  speaking  trumpet ;  back  out  of  the  clouds 
Of  Glaramara  southward  came  the  voice  ; 
And  Kirkstone  tossed  it  from  his  misty  head. 

1800. 


STRAY  LINES  FROM  DIFFERENT  POEMS. 

The  sympathies  of  them 
Who  look  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness, 
And  make  dear  friendships  with  the  streams  and  groves. 

—  To  Johanna* 

Thou  in  the  dear  love  of  some  one  Friend 

Hast  been  so  happy  that  thou  know'st  what  thoughts 

Will  sometimes  in  the  happiness  of  Love 

Make  the  heart  sink. 

— Inscription  J  or  the  Hermitage. 

Happy  is  he,  who,  caring  not  for  Pope, 
Consul  or  King,  can  sound  himself  to  know 
The  destiny  of  man,  and  live  in  hope. 

— Calais,  1802. 

Oh  !  there  is  life  that  breathes  not;  Powers  there  are 
That  touch  each  other  to  the  quick  in  modes 
Which  the  gross  world  no  sense  hath  to  perceive, 
No  soul  to  dream  of. 

— Kilchum  Castle. 


33%  William  Wottexvottb. 

The  immortal  mind  craves  objects  that  endure: 
These  cleave  to  it ;  from  these  it  cannot  roam, 
Nor  they  from  it:  their  fellowship  is  secure. 

—  Those  Words  Were  Uttered, 

Though  nature's  dread  protection  fails 
There  is  a  bulwark  in  the  soul. 

— And  Is  It  Among  Rude  Untutored  Dates. 

We  know  the  arduous  strife,  the  eternal  laws 
To  which  the  triumph  of  all  good  is  given, 
High  sacrifice,  and  labour  without  pause, 
Even  to  the  death  :— else  wherefore  should  the  eye 
Of  man  converse  with  immortality  ? 

—O'er  the  Wide  Earth. 

The  fairest,  brightest  hues  of  ether  fade  ; 
The  sweetest  notes  must  terminate  and  die. 

—  The  Fairest  Hues. 

I  have  risen,  uplifted,  on  the  breeze 
Of  harmony,  above  all  earthly  care. 

—  The  Fairest  Hues. 

Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour  \ 
Not  dull  art  thou  as  undiscerning  night ; 
But  studious  only  to  remove  from  sight 
Day's  mutable  distinctions. 

— Ha  it,  Twitight. 

Weak  spirits  are  there — who  would  ask 
Upon  the  pressure  of  a  painful  thing, 
The  lion's  sinews,  or  the  eagle's  wing. 

—Ode,  1816. 

Fix  thine  eyes  upon  the  sea 

That  absorbs  time,  space,  and  number, 

Look  thou  to  Eternity  ! 

—  The  Longest  Day. 

Duty,  like  a  strict  preceptor, 

Sometimes  frowns,  or  seems  to  frown  ; 

Choose  her  thistle  for  thy  sceptre, 
While  youth's  roses  are  thy  crown. 

—  The  Longest  Day. 


militant  Morfcswortb,  339 

Thus  when  thou  with  Time  hast  travelled 
Toward  the  mighty  gulf  of  things, 
And  in  the  mazy  stream  unravelled 
With  thy  best  imaginings  ; 
Think  if  thou  on  beauty  leanest, 
Think  how  pitiful  that  stay, 
Did  not  virtue  give  the  meanest 
Charms  superior  to  decay. 

—  The  Longest  Day, 
The  dew, — the  storm, — 
Did  alike  proceed 

From  the  same  gracious  will,  were  both  an  offspring 
Of  bounty  infinite. 

— Musings  Near  Aquapendente. 

The  cuckoo,  wandering  in  solitude,  and  evermore 

Foretelling  and  proclaiming,  .  .   . 

Voice  of  the  desert,  fare-thee-well,  sweet  bird. 

—  The  Cuckoo  at  Laverna, 

For  there  are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 
That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

— Ruth, 

Pure  hopes  of  high  intent. 

— Ruth, 

The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent  ; 
The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  favoured  bowers. 

—Ruth, 

God  who  made  the  great  book  of  the  world. 

—  The  Brothers, 

I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own. 

—  The  Pet  La7nb, 

Say,  what  is  Honour? — 'Tis  the  finest  sense 
Of  justice  which  the  human  mind  can  frame, 
Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  disclaim 
And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all  offence 
Suffered  or  done. 

— Say,  What  is  Honour? 

And  the  realised  vision  is  clasped  to  my  heart. 

— At  Vallambrosa. 


34o  TCUUfam  TKHorfcswortb, 

Vain  is  the  glory  of  the  sky, 

The  beauty  vain  of  field  and  grove, 
Unless,  while  with  admiring  eye 

We  gaze,  we  also  learn  to  love. 

—  Glad  Sight. 

Thou  wilt  salute  old  memories  as  they  throng 
Into  thy  heart ;  and  fancies,  running  wild 

Through  fresh  green  fields,  and  budding  groves  among, 
Will  make  thee  happy,  happy  as  a  child : 

Of  sunshine  wilt  thou  think,  and  flowers  and  song, 

And  breathe  as  in  a  world  where  nothing  can  go  wronj* 

— ■  The  Cuckoo  Clock. 

For  who  what  is  shall  measure  by  what  seems 

To  be,  or  not  to  be, 

Or  tax  high  Heaven  with  prodigality  ? 

—  The  Unremitting  Voice. 

Action  is  transitory, — a  step,  a  blow — 
The  action  of  a  muscle,  this  way  or  that. 

—  The  Borderers. 

The  child  is  father  of  the  man. 

— My  Heart  Leaps  Up. 

Sweet  childish  clays,  that  were  as  long 
As  twenty  days  are  now. 

—  To  a  Butterfly. 
A  Briton,  even  in  love,  should  be 
A  subject,  not  a  slave  ! 

— Ere  with  Cold  Beads  of  Midnight  Dew. 

True  beauty  dwells  in  deep  retreats, 

Whose  veil  is  unremoved 
Till  heart  with  heart  in  concord  beats, 

And  the  lover  is  beloved. 

—  To 

Minds  that  have  nothing  to  confer 
Find  little  to  perceive. 

—  Yes,  Thou  Art  Fair. 

Why  art  thou  silent !     Is  thy  love  a  plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  ? 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  ? 

—  Why  Art  Thou  Silent. 


William  IKIlorfcswortb.  34i 

Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant 
Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing  care, 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 
For  naught  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare. 

—  Why  Art  Thou  Silent. 

Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help. 

— Michael. 
But  he  is  oft  the  wisest  man 
Who  is  not  wise  at  all. 

—  The  Oak  and  the  Broom. 

A  youth  to  whom  was  given 

So  much  of  earth,  so  much  of  heaven. 

— Ruth. 

Hunt  half  a  day  for  a  forgotten  dream. 

—Hart-leap  Well. 
A  Primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him 
And  it  was  nothing  more. 

—Peter  Bell. 

The  soft  blue  sky  did  never  melt 
Into  his  heart ;  he  never  felt 
The  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky. 

—Peter  Bell. 

As  if  the  man  had  fixed  his  face 
In  many  a  solitary  place 
Against  the  wind  and  open  sky. 

—Peter  Bell 
Tutored  for  Eternity. 

—  To  Lady  Fleming. 

Then  be  assured 

That  least  of  all  can  aught — that  ever  owned 
The  heaven-regarding  eye  and  front  sublime 
Which  man  is  born  to— sink,  howe'er  depressed, 
So  low  as  to  be  scorned  without  a  sin. 

— Old  Cumberland  Beggar. 

Long  have  I  loved  what  I  behold, 

The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheers  ; 

The  common-growth  of  Mother-earth 

Suffices  me — her  tears,  her  mirth, 

Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

—Peter  Bell. 


342  Timillfam  TKllortewortb, 

Such  delight  I  found 
To  note  in  shrub  and  tree,  in  stone  and  flower 
That  intermixture  of  delicious  hues, 
Along  so  vast  a  surface,  all  at  once, 
In  one  impression,  by  connecting  force 
Of  their  own  beauty,  imaged  in  the  heart. 

—  To  Johanna. 

Gone  from  this  world  of  earth,  air,  sea,  and  sky, 
From  all  its  spirit,  moving  imagery, 
Intensely  studied  with  a  painter's  eye, 
A  poet's  heart. 

— Elegiac  Musings. 

The  primal  flight 
Of  the  poetic  ecstasy 
Into  the  land  of  mystery. 

— Oft  Have  1  Caught, 

O  Nightingale !    Who  ever  heard  thy  song 
Might  here  be  moved,  till  Fancy  grows  so  strong 
That  listening  sense  is  pardonably  cheated 
Where  wood  or  stream  by  thee  was  never  greeted. 

— By  the  Side  of  Rydal  Mere. 

What  are  helps  of  time  and  place, 
When  Wisdom  stands  in  need  of  Nature's  grace  ; 
Why  do  good  thoughts,  invoked  or  not,  descend 
Like  Angels  from  their  bowers,  our  virtues  to  befriend. 

— Soft  as  a  Cloud. 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more, 

— Sonnet.    London ,  1802. 

Tears  to  human  suffering  are  due : 

And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrown 

Are  mourned  by  man. 

— Laodamia. 

Soft  is  the  music  that  would  charm  forever, 
The  flower  of  sweetest  smell  is  shy  and  lowly. 

— Sonnet. 

How  does  the  meadow-flower  in  its  bloom  unfold  ? 
Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 
Down  to  its  root,  and  in  that  freedom,  bold. 

— Sonnet. 


TKlWlfam  TOorDewortb.  343 

The  best  of  what  we  do  and  are, 
Just  God,  forgive  ! 

—  Thoughts  on  the  Banks  of  Nit h. 

Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  passed  away. 

—  The  Venetian  Republic. 

The  feather  whence  the  pen 

Was  shaped  that  traced  the  lives  of  these  good  men, 

Dropped  from  an  angel's  wing. 

— Ecclesiastical  Sonnets. 


The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love. 

— At  Mosgiel. 

Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

—  The  Tables  Turned. 

You  would  find 

A  tale  in  everything. 

— Simon  Lee. 


I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning  ; 
Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

— Simon  Lee. 

Yet  sometimes  when  the  secret  cup 

Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round, 

It  seemed  as  if  he  drank  it  up, 
He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound. 

— Matthew. 

Whence  can  comfort  spring 
When  prayer  is  of  no  avail  ? 

— Force  of  Prayer. 

But  hushed  be  every  thought  that  springs 
From  out  the  bitterness  of  things. 

—  To  Sir  George  Beaumont. 


344  tKftftlfam  tKHorbswortb. 

Men  who  can  hear  the  Decalogue  and  feel 
No  self-reproach. 

—  The  Cumberland  Beggar. 

One  that  would  peep  and  botanise 
Upon  his  mother's  grave. 

— Poefs  Epitaph. 


STRAY  BEAUTIES  FROM  THE  PRELUDE. 

Those  recollected  hours  that  have  the  charm 

Of  visionary  things,  those  lovely  forms 

And  sweet  sensations  that  throw  back  our  life, 

And  almost  make  remotest  infancy 

A  visible  scene,  on  which  the  sun  is  shining. 

—Book  I. 

Tell, — how  Wallace  fought  for  Scotland  ;  lett  the  name 

Of  Wallace  to  be  found,  like  a  wild  flower, 

All  over  his  dear  Country  ;  left  the  deeds 

Of  Wallace  like  a  family  of  ghosts, 

To  people  the  steep  rocks  and  river  banks, 

Her  natural  sanctuaries,  with  a  local  soul 

Of  independence  and  stern  liberty. 

—Book  I. 

The  fairest  of  all  rivers,  loved 

To  blend  his  murmurs  with  my  nurse's  song 

...     and  sent  a  voice 
That  flowed  along  my  dreams. 

—Book  I. 

Blest  the  babe, 

Nursed  in  his  mother's  arms,  who  sinks  to  sleep 

Rocked  on  his  mother's  breast ;  who  with  his  soul 

Drinks  in  the  feelings  of  his  mother's  eye  ! 

For  him,  in  one  dear  presence,  there  exists 

A  virtue  which  irradiates  and  exalts 

Objects  through  widest  intercourse  of  sense, 

No  outcast  he,  bewildered  and  depressed : 

Along  his  infant  veins  are  interfused 

The  gravitation  and  the  filial  bond 

Of  nature  that  connect  him  with  the  world. 

Is  there  a  flower,  to  which  he  points  with  hand 

Too  weak  to  gather  it,  already  love 

Drawn  from  love's  purest  earthly  fount  for  him 


TOilliam  Morfcewortb.  345 

Hath  beautified  that  flower ;  already  shades 
Of  pity  cast  from  inward  tenderness 
Do  fall  around  him  upon  aught  that  bears 
Unsightly  marks  of  violence  or  harm. 

—Book  II. 

Society  made  sweet  as  solitude 
By  silent  unobtrusive  sympathies, 
And  gentle  agitations  of  the  mind 
From  manifold  distinctions,  difference 
Perceived  in  things,  where  to  the  unwatchful  eye 
No  difference  is,  and  hence  from  the  same  source 
Sublimer  joy. 

—Book  II 

When  from  our  better  selves  we  have  too  long 
Been  parted  by  the  hurrying  world,  and  droop 
Sick  of  its  business,  of  its  pleasures  tired, 
How  gracious,  how  benign  is  solitude  ! 

—Book  IV. 

Thou  also,  Man,  hast  wrought 

Things  that  aspire  to  unconquerable  life. 

—Book  V. 
Oh  !   why  hath  not  the  Mind 
Some  element  to  stamp  her  image  on 
In  nature  somewhat  nearer  to  her  own  ? 
Why,  gifted  with  such  powers  to  send  abroad 
Her  spirit,  must  it  lodge  in  shrines  so  frail  ? 

—Book  V. 

(Long) 
Have  I  been  now  a  sojourner  on  earth, 
By  sorrow  not  unsmitten ;  yet  for  me 
Life's  morning  radiance  hath  not  left  the  hills, 
Her  dew  is  on  the  flowers. 

—Book   VI. 

I  drew 
A  pleasure  quiet  and  profound,  a  sense 
Of  permanent  and  universal  sway 
And  paramount  belief,  there  recognised 
A  type,  for  finite  natures  of  the  one 
Supreme  Existence,  the  surpassing  Life, 
Which,  to  the  boundaries  of  space  and  time, 
Of  melancholy  space  and  doleful  time, 
Superior  and  incapable  of  change, 
Nor  touched  by  welterings  of  passion — is 
And  hath  the  name  of,  God.  — Book  VI. 


346  Timflliam  TlMorDswortb. 

Whether  we  be  young  or  old, 
Our  destiny,  our  being's  heart  and  home, 
Is  with  infinitude,  and  only  there ; 
With  hope  it  is,  hope  that  can  never  die, 
Effort  and  expectation  and  desire, 
And  something  evermore  about  to  be. 

—Book   VI. 

There  is  no  grief,  no  sorrow,  no  despair, 
No  languor,  no  dejection,  no  dismay, 
No  absence  scarcely  can  there  be,  for  those 
Who  love  as  we  do. 

—Book   VI. 

Things  that  are,  are  not, 

As  the  mind  answers  to  them,  or  the  heart 

Is  prompt  or  slow,  to  feel. 

—Book   VII. 

The  peace  that  comes  with  night ;  the  deep  solemnity 
Of  nature's  intermediate  hours  of  rest, 
When  the  great  tide  of  human  life  stands  still. 

—Book   VIL 

The  face  of  every  one 

That  passes  by  me  is  a  mystery  ! 

Thus  have  I  looked,  nor  ceased  to  look,  oppressed 

By  thoughts  of  what  and  whither,  when  and  how, 

Until  the  shapes  before  my  eyes  became 

A  second-sight  procession,  such  as  glides 

Over  still  mountains  or  appears  in  dreams. 

—Book   VIL 

To  him  who  looks 

In  steadiness,  who  hath  among  least  things 
An  under-sense  of  greatest ;  sees  the  parts 
As  parts,  but  with  a  feeling  of  the  whole. 

—Book   VII. 

And  so  we  all  of  us  in  some  degree 

Are  led  to  knowledge,  wheresoever  led, 

And  howsoever  ;  were  it  otherwise, 

And  we  found  evil  fast  as  we  find  good, 

In  our  first  years,  or  think  that  it  is  found, 

How  could  the  innocent  heart  bear  up  and  live  ! 

—Book   VIII. 


William  morfcswortb,  347 

Man  and  his  noble  nature,  as  it  is 

The  gift  which  God  has  placed  within  his  power, 

His  blind  desires  and  steady  faculties 

Capable  of  clear  truth,  the  one  to  break 

Bondage,  the  other  to  build  liberty 

On  firm  foundations.  — Book  IX. 

The  tide  retreats 
But  to  return  out  of  his  hiding-place 
In  the  great  deep  ;  all  things  have  second  birth. 

—Book  X. 

Heaven's  best  aid  is  wasted  upon  men 
Who  to  themselves  are  false. 

— Book  X. 

Man  is  only  weak  through  his  mistrust 
And  want  of  hope  where  evidence  divine 
Proclaims  to  him  that  hope  should  be  most  sure. 

— Book  X. 

A  mind  whose  rest 
Is  where  it  ought  to  be,  in  self-restraint, 
In  circumspection  and  simplicity, 
Falls  rarely  in  entire  discomfiture 
Below  its  aim,  or  meets  with,  from  without, 
A  treachery  that  foils  it  or  defeats. 

—Book  X. 

If  from  the  affliction  somewhere  do  not  grow 
Honour  which  could  not  else  have  been,  a  faith, 
An  elevation,  and  a  sanctity, 
If  new  strength  be  not  given  nor  old  restored, 
The  blame  is  ours,  not  Nature's. 

— Book  X. 

There  is 
One  great  society  alone  on  earth  ; 
The  noble  Living  and  the  noble  Dead. 

—Book  XL 

So  feeling  comes  in  aid 
Of  feeling,  and  diversity  of  strength 
Attends  us,  if  but  once  we  have  been  strong. 

—Book  XII. 

Thou  must  give 
Else  never  canst  receive. 

—Book  XII. 


348  lixatiliam  IWorDswortb, 

SELECTION  FROM  THE  ODE  ON  PRINCE  ALBERT. 

[Written  after  being  appointed  Laureate.] 

Albert,  in  thy  race  we  cherish 

A  Nation's  strength  that  will  not  perish 

While  England's  sceptred  line 
True  to  the  King  of  Kings  is  found  ; 

Like  that  wise  ancestor  of  thine 
Who  threw  the  Saxon  shield  o'er  Luther's  life 
When  first  above  the  yells  of  bigot  strife 

The  trumpet  of  the  Living  Word 
Assumed  a  voice  of  deep  portentous  sound, 

From  gladdened  Elbe  to  startled  Tiber  heard. 

What  shield  more  sublime 

E'er  was  blazoned  or  sung  ? 
And  the  Prince  whom  we  greet 

From  its  hero  is  sprung. 
Resound,  resound  the  strain 

That  hails  him  for  our  own  ! 
Again,  and  yet  again, 

For  the  Church,  the  State,  the  Throne, 
And  that  presence  fair  and  bright, 

Ever  blest  wherever  seen, 
Who  deigns  to  grace  our  festal  rite, 

The  pride  of  the  islands,  Victoria  the  Queen. 

J847. 


*U?RED  TENNYSON. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Born  at  Somersby,  Lincolnshire,  in  1809.  Made  Laureate  in  1850.  Died 
in  1892. 

(Reign  of  Victoria.) 

It  is  in  the  works  of  men  like  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson 
that  the  breadth,  the  sanctity,  the  power  of  genius  are  made 
clearer  to  the  race  at  large;  it  is  in  the  lives  of  men  like  them 
that  humanity  is  lifted  up,  made  stronger,  made  to  grasp  more 
firmly  the  meaning  of  existence.  Their  influence  is  sanative, 
gracious;  they  attune  the  soul  to  high  and  noble  states  of 
feeling;  they  minister  to  the  purest  instincts.  They  are  an 
abiding  blessing  to  the  world. 

Tennyson's  life,  like  that  of  Wordsworth's,  was  a  fine 
refutation  of  that  false  theory  of  art, — held,  alas !  too  often 
by  critics  of  otherwise  trustworthy  judgment, — the  theory 
that  the  great  poet  "  needs  a  license  and  an  indulgence 
not  accorded  to  other  men ";  that  the  true  poetic  or 
artistic  temperament  cannot  exist  with  moral  sanity ;  and 
therefore  the  poet  need  not  be  bound  by  the  laws  which  are 
the  safeguards  of  the  race  at  large.  Tennyson  had  more 
the  artistic  temperament  than  Wordsworth,  but  he  was  also 
evenly  poised,  morally  sane,  "actively  and  securely  virtuous." 

"  We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it,"  he  wrote  in 
one  of  his  most  perfect  Idylls.  He  himself  sought  the  highest, 
found  his  pleasure  and  his  duty  in  it,  and  in  love  for  it  lies  the 
secret  of  the  power  of  his  poetry,  the  secret  of  the  beauty  and 
the  dignity  of  his  life.  We  need  to  make  no  excuses  for  Tenny- 
son. He  never  "  debased  the  sacred  art  of  verse,"  like  Byron, 
nor  condescended  to  actions  at  variance  with  his  character,  like 
Shelley.  He  can  be  honoured  for  the  moral  influence  of  his  life 
as  well  as  the  matchless  grace  of  his  art. 

Wordsworth  wrote  to  Lady  Beaumont  in  answer  to  her 
solicitude  in  regard  to  the  public  reception  of  his  poems :  "  Of 
what  moment  is  their  present  reception  compared  to  what  I 
trust  is  their  destiny  ?  To  console  the  afflicted,  to  add  sun- 
shine to  daylight  by  making  the  happy  happier,  to  teach  the 
young  and  the  gracious  of  every  age  to  see,  to  think,  arid  to 
feel,  and  therefore  to  become  7nore  actively  arid  securely 
virtuous, — this  is  their  office,  which  I  trust  they  will  faithfully 


35°  BlfreD  Zennyeon. 

perform, — long  after  we,  that  is,  all  that  is  mortal  of  us,  are 
mouldered  in  our  graves." 

I  have  quoted  this  here  rather  than  in  the  sketch  of  Words- 
worth, because  it  is  also  so  appropriate  to*  the  influence  of  the 
work  of  Tennyson.  The  striking  and  radical  differences,  as 
well  as  the  correspondences  between  his  work  and  Words- 
worth's, can  only  be  understood  by  a  sympathetic  study  of  the 
poetry  of  both.  Their  treatment  of  nature  and  the  problems 
of  man's  existence  was  quite  different ;  but  they  were  alike  in 
their  sincerity,  in  their  intellectual  grasp,  in  their  devotion  to 
the  inward  life  of  the  spirit.  Tennyson  was  not  the  epoch- 
maker  that  Wordsworth  was,  and  he  seldom  approached  Words- 
worth when  in  his  peculiar  rapt,  imaginative  moods  ;  but  then 
he  had  few  of  Wordsworth's  inequalities,  and,  unlike  him, 
chose  only  the  inspired  hours  in  which  to  write ;  hence  he  pro- 
duced poetry  which  in  workmanship  is  well-nigh  flawless.  He 
was  one  of  the  most  perfect  artists  which  the  world  has  ever 
seen;_ 

/  To  define  the  quality  of  Tennyson's  greatness  would  be  to 

find  the  essence  of  poetry  itself.     He  loved  beauty  and  sought 

/it  in  all  things — found  it  not  alone  in  nature,  but  in  some  of 

/the  most  pathetic  and  tragic  portions  of  human  life.     And  in 

/  his  pursuit  of  beauty  he  found  truth,  for  being  a  true  disciple 

of  Keats,  he  felt  beauty  and  truth  to  be  one. 

Tennyson's  poetry,  besides  being  an  exponent  of  beauty  and 
a  treasury  of  some  of  the  sublimest  truths  which  can  console 
and  gladden  and  make  vigorous  the  human  heart,  is(  also  an 
eloquent  expression  of  the  most  characteristic  features  of  the 
thought  of  the  nineteenth  century, — its  scientific  methods,  its 
doubts,  its  struggles  of  the  spirit,  its  search  for  certainty,  its 
gropings  after  immortality, — in  fact,  all  the  aspirations  of 
his  age. 

As  Laureate,  Tennyson  wrote  many  official  poems  which 
rank  high  for  their  lyric  grace  and  earnest  patriotism,  the  "  Ode 
on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,"  being  perhaps  the 
finest.  But  these  poems  are  not  the  most  perfect  manifesta- 
tions of  Tennyson's  genius. 

His  work  for  over  sixty  years  formed  a  most  important  part 
of  the  music  of  life,  of  the  wide-reaching  thought,  of  the 
i  spiritual  aspiration  of  two  continents.  For  over  sixty  years 
'  he  gave  to  England  and  to  America  his  poetry  of  inimitable 
;  grace,  of  idyllic  charm,  of  witchery,  and  of  power;  and  then  in 
'  the  "  fulness  of  years  and  of  glory,"  he  crossed  the  bar  into  the 
sea  of  that  mysterious  and  immortal  life,  of  which  he  had  given 
,  so  sublime  an  exposition  in  "  In  Memoriam." 


SELECTIONS  FROM  TENNYSON.* 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

Revered,  beloved — O  you  that  hold 
A  nobler  office  upon  earth 
Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 

Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria, —  since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  utter'd  nothing  base ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there  ; 

Then — while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace  walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song; 

For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 

In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 
Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
"  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good  ; 

*  These  selections,  arranged  chronologically,  not  in  classes,  cannot  do  justice  to 
Tennyson's  genius.  Much  which  is  representative,  much  which  is  of  priceless 
value  and  interest,  can  find,  no  place  here.  Enough,  if  what  we  have  chosen  will 
stimulate  the  reader  to  study  with  sympathetic  appreciation  everything  which  this 
great  poet  has  written. 

351 


35  2  Blfrefc  Genngsom 

"  Her  court  was  pure  ;  her  life  serene ; 

God  gave  her  peace  ;  her  land  reposed  ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
in  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen  ; 

"  And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree, 
Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still, 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will ; 

And  compass'd  by  the  inviolate  sea." 


THE  POET. 


1851. 


The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above ; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 

The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death  ;  thro'  good  and  ill. 

He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 

An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay ;  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 

And  wing'd  with  flame, 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver  tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 

Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit : 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field  flower, 

The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 

A  flower  all  gold, 


Blfrefc  Zennyeon.  353 

And  bravely  furnish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breathing  spring 

Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 

Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcurl'd, 

Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning  eyes 

Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies  ; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 

Of  her  keen  eyes. 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name. 

And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 

Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  there  meaning  to  her  words.     No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word 

She  shook  the  world. 


POLAND. 

How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down, 
And  trampled  under  by  the  Inst  and  least 
Of  men  ?     The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not  ceased 
To  quiver,  tho'  her  sacred  blood  doth  drown 
The  fields,  and  out  of  every  smouldering  town 


354  Blfrefc  {Tenngson. 

Cries  to  Thee  lest  brute  power  be  increased, 
Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the  East 
Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some  new  crown  : 
Cries  to  Thee,  "  Lord,  how  long  shall  these  things  be? 
How  long  this  icy-hearted  Muscovite 
Oppress  the  region  ?  "     Us,  O  Just  and  Good, 
Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn  in  three ; 
Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should  aid  the  right — 
A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood. 


FROM   THE  TWO   VOICES. 

A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ?  " 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said  : 
"  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size, 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  drily  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without, 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup- 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest — gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole, 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  :  give  me  one  kiss  : 
My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 

There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 
Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 


Blfrefc  Genngson,  355 

There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  ? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire  : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan  ; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before  I  dream 'd  that  pleasant  dream — 
Still  hither  thither  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or,  from  the  bridge  I  leaned  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise, 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping  stones, 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
(Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 


35 6  BlfreD  Zennyson. 

Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain, 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  timesc 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck, 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set, 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge; 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright — 
Such  eyes !  I  swear  to  you,  my  love, 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death  : 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And  fill'd  the  breast  with  purer  breath, 
My  mother  thought,  What  ails  the  boy? 

For  I  was  altered  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 

The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 
The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 


44  THE   POOL   BENEATH   IT   NEVER   STILL." — Page   356. 


Blfrefc  ZcMWveon.  357 

The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor, 
The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 

The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill ; 

And  "  By  that  lamp,"  I  thought,  "  she  sits  !  " 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
"  Oh,  that  I  were  beside  her  now  ! 

Oh,  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 
Oh,  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ?  " 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the  blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  may, 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day; 
And  so  it  was — half-sly,  half-shy. 

You  would  and  would  not,  little  one ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly, 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 
She  wished  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

I  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher; 


35 8  BlfreD  Genngson. 

And  I  was  young — too  young  to  wed  ; 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake ; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said ; 

Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

k 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride  : 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 
I  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  in  tears, 

I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watch'd  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see. 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me  ; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face, 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  press'd  you  heart  to  heart. 

Ah,  well — but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you.  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers — that  I  may  seem, 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream, 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 


It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear, 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 


And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest. 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 


BlfreD  CemtEeom  359 


And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 
With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 


A  trifle,  sweet !  which  true  love  spells — 

True  love  interprets — right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth 

You  must  blame  Love.     His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 
Like  my  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 

Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 
Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart ; 

So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 
Half  anger'd  with  my  happy  lot, 

The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

.    I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set, 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Ever  so. 
Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret, 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget :   . 

Ah,  no !  no  1 


Look  thro*  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True  wife, 
Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine  ; 

My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine ! 

Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years, 
May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell  ! 

They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 


36°  BlfreD  Gennyeon. 

Yet  tears  they  shed ;  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow :  for  when  the  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before : 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more. 


With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss. 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee ; 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear — who  wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below: 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.    Let  us  go. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 

I  BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 
Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 

I  said,  "  O  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 


A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  burnish'd  brass 
I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 

From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.     Of  ledge  or  shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 

My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 


BlfreD  Gennyeon.  36* 

And  "While  the  world  runs  round  and  round,"  I  said, 

"  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stedfast  shade 

Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily: 

"  Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 

So  royal-rich  and  wide." 


Four  courts  I  made,  East,  West,  and  South,  and  North, 

In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 

A  flood  of  fountain  foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a  row 
Of  cloisters,  branch'd  like  mighty  woods, 

Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 
That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 

Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one  swell 

Across  the  mountain  stream 'd  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 

Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odour  steam'd 

From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  "And  who  shall  gaze  upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 

And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ?  " 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never  fail'd, 
And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 

The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 


362  BlfreD  Gennyeon. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd  and  traced, 
Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 

From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlaced, 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Full  of  long  sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 
Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did  pass, 

Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  gieat  rooms  and  small  the  palace  stood, 

.All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 

And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and  blue, 

Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with  puff 'd  cheek  the  belted  hunter  blew 

His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red — a  tract  of  sand, 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  for  ever  in  a  glimmering  land, 

Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 

You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 

Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 

With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil. 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.     Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 

And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and  slags, 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 

All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 


BlfreD  ftennESom  363 

And  one,  an  English  home — gray  twilight  pour'd 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep — all  things  in  order  stored, 

A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair, 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind, 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was  there 

Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny  warm, 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx 

Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea, 

Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  witli  white  roses,  slept  St.  Cecily  ; 

An  angel  looked  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 

That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply  wounded  son 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 

And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausonian  king  to  hear 

Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sail'd 

A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne: 

From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus :  one  hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 


364  BlfreO  Genn£6om 

Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 
Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 

Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 

Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells  that  swung, 
Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound  ; 

And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild  ; 

And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasped  his  song, 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest ; 

A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin; 
A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his  breast, 

From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 

With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 

So  wrought  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 

Toil'd  onward,  pricked  with  goads  and  stings; 

Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or  bind 
Ail  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 

And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  declined, 
And  trusted  any  cure. 


Blfrefc  GemiBeon.  365 

But  over  these  she  trod  :  and  those  great  bells 
Began  to  chime.     She  took  her  throne: 

She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alohe. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  coloured  flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below ; 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow'd  Verulam, 

The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion  were 
Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change, 

Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange: 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  emerald,  blue, 

Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes, 
And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Memnon,  drew 

Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd  song 

Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth, 

Lord  of  the  senses  five  ; 

Communing  with  herself:  "All  these  are  mine, 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
'Tis  one  to  me."     She — when  young  night  divine 

Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems, 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 

In  hallow'd  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven  ;  and  clapt  her  hands  and  cried, 

"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal  rich,  and  wide, 

Be  flatter'cl  to  the  height. 


366  BlfreD  Zennveon. 

"  O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes  ! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well ! 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 
My  Gods,  with  whflm  I  dwell ! 

"  O  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 

What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves  of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

"  In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient  skin, 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and  sleep  ; 

And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate, 

And  of  the  rising  of  the  dead, 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish'd  Fate  ; 

And  at  the  last  she  said  : 

*'  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl, 

1  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all." 


Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth, 

And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd  :  so  three  years 

She  prosper'd:  on  the  fourth  she  fell 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ears, 

Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 

Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she  turn'd  her  sight, 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 
Wrote  "  Mene,  mene,"  and  divided  quite 

The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 


Blfrefc  aenngson.  367 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 
Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  born 

Scorn  of  herself ;  again,  from  out  that  mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"What  !  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength  ?  "  she  said. 

"  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones  were  laid 

Since  my  first  memory  ?  " 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes  :  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of  blood, 

And  horrible  nightmares. 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon  she  came, 

That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 
Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my  soul, 

Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of  sand, 
Left  on  the  shore  ;  that  hears  all  night 

The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 
Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 

The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curled. 

"  No  voice,"  she  shriek'd  in  that  lone  hall, 
"  No  voice  breaks  through  the  stillness  of  this  world  : 

One  deep,  deep  silence  all !  " 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's  mouldering  scd, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 

Lost  to  her  place  and  name  ; 


368  BlfrcD  Gennveon. 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 

No  comfort  anywhere. 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears, 
And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 

And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime : 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully  sound 

Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking  slow, 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 

Moan  of  an  unknown  sea  : 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder  or  a  sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 

Of  great  wild  beasts  ;  then  thinketh,  "  I  have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howl'd  aloud,  "  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin 

And  save  me  lest  I  die  ?  " 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 
"  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she  said, 

"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

"  Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  are 

So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 

When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

"  COURAGE  !  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  land, 

"  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soon." 

In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land, 

In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. , 

AH  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 


Blfrefc  {Tenngscm.  369 

Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon  ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams  !  some  like  a  downward  smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go  ; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land  :  far  off,  three  mountain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flush 'd  :  and,  dew'd  with  showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 

In  the  red  West :  thro*  mountain  clefts  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Bordered  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale  : 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the  same! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far,  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores  ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave  :  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return  no  more  ;  " 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave  ;  we  will  no  longer  roam." 


37°  BlfreD  Zennyson. 


FROM  LINES  TO  J.  S. 

God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 
He  lends  us  :  but  when  love  is  grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.     Alas, 
In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearn'd  ; 

Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did  pass ; 
One  went,  who  never  hath  return'd. 


FROM  LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND. 

Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  tranfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  tum'd  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close, 

What  sequel  ?     Streaming  eyes  and  breaking  hearts  ? 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 

Not  so.     Shall  Error  in  the  round  of  time 
Still  father  Truth  ?     O  shall  the  braggart  shout 
For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom  work  itself 
Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to  law 
System  and  empire?     Sin  itself  be  found 
The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the  Sun  ? 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere  highway  dust  ?  or  year  by  year  alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life, 
Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of  himself  ? 

If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were  all, 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart, 
The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless  days, 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  I  not  the  nobler  thro'  thy  love  ? 


Blfiefc  XLcnnyeon.  37 1 

O  three  times  less  unworthy  !  likewise  thou 
Art  more  thro'  Love,  and  greater  than  thy  years 
The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the  Moon 
Her  circle.     Wait,  and  Love  himself  will  bring 
The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge  changed  to  fruit 
Of  wisdom.     Wait :  my  faith  is  large  in  Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect  end. 

Will  some  one  say,  Then  why  not  ill  for  good  ? 
Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime  ?     To  that  man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew  the  right 
And  did  it ;  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a  man. 
— So  let  me  think  'tis  well  for  thee  and  me, — 
Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine, 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my  heart  so  slow 
To  feel  it !     For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to  me, 
When  eyes,  love-languid  thro'  half  tears,  would  dwell 
One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine, 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see  !  when  thy  low  voice, 
Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to  keep 
My  own  full  tuned, — hold  passion  in  a  leash, 
And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy  neck, 
And  on  thy  bosom  (deep-desired  relief !) 
Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that  weigh'd 
Upon  my  brain,  my  senses,  and  my  soul  ! 

For  Love  himself  took  part  against  himself 
To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of  Love — 
O  this  world's  curse, — beloved,  but  hated — came 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace  and  mine, 
And  crying,  "  Who  is  this  ?  behold  thy  bride," 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 
To  alien  ears,  I  did  not  speak  to  these — 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  thyself  in  me  : 
Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine  :  thou  knowest  it  all. 

Could  Love  part  thus  ?  was  it  not  well  to  speak, 
To  have  spoken  once  ?     It  could  not  but  be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  good, 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  ill, 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought  the  night 
In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 
And  to  the  want,  that  hollow 'd  all  the  heart, 
Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an  eye, 
That  burn'd  upon  its  object  thro'  such  tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those  caresses,  when  a  hundred  times 


37 2  Blfrefc  {Tennyson. 

In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the  last, 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived  and  died. 
Then  follow'd  counsel,  comfort,  and  the  words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speaking  truth  ; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  overhead 
The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise  mix'd 
In  that  brief  night ;  the  summer  night,  that  paused 
Among  her  stars  to  hear  us  ;  stars  that  hung 
Love-charm 'd  to  listen  :  all  the  wheels  of  Time 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had  come. 

O  then  like  those,  who  clench  their  nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 
There — closing  like  an  individual  life — 
In  one  wild  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain, 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'n  to  death, 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  utter'd  it, 
And  bade  adieu  forever. 

Live — yet  live — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  knowing  all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will — 
Live  happy  ;  tend  thy  flowers  ;  be  tended  by 
My  blessing !     Should  my  Shadow  cross  thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  darkest  hold, 
If  not  to  be  forgotten — not  at  once — 
Not  all  forgotten.     Should  it  cross  thy  dreams, 
O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  content, 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth, 
And  point  thee  forward  to  a  distant  light, 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burden  from  thy  heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake  refresh'd, 
Then  when  the  first  low  matin-chirp  hath  grown 
Full  quire,  and  morning  driv'n  her  plough  of  pearl 
Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded  rack, 
Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  eastern  sea. 


ULYSSES.* 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 

Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

*  It  is  said  that  because  Tennyson  had  written  this  poem— so  perfect,  so  beauti- 
ful, so  compact  and  rich  in  thought  and  expression,  that  the  laurel  was  bestowed 
upon  him. 


Blfrefc  Zennyeon.  373 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel ;  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees  :  all  times  1  have  enjoy 'd 

Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore,  and  when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vext  the  dim  sea  :  I  am  become  a  name ; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all ; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains  :  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  ma£e  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought  and  thought  with 

me — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old  ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all  :  but  something  ere  the  end, 


374  Blfrefc  Zennyecm. 

Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 

Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks  ; 

The  long  day  wanes  ;  the  slow  moon  climbs :  the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 

The  sounding  furrows  ;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  : 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  tho' 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven  ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

COMRADES,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn  : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle 
horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  reposed  ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed  : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see  ; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be. — 


Blfrefc  ftennESon.  375 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast  ; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest  : 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish 'd  clove ; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of 
love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so 

young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  colour  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And   she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden    storm  of 

sighs- 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  "  I   have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should   do  me 

wrong ;  " 
Saying,  "  Dost  thou- love  me,  cousin  ?  "  weeping,  "  I  have  loved 

thee  long." 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing 

hands  ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on   all  the  chords 

with  might ; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of 

sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with   the  fulness  of  the 
Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted  !     O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more  ! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !    O  the  barren,  barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue  ! 


376  Blfrefc  Genngson. 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ? — having  known  me — to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 
What  is  rine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathise  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee 
down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel 

force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy  :  think  not  they  are  glazed 

with  wine. 
Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty :  kiss  him  :  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brajn  is  overwrought  : 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter 
thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand  ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten^l  forehead  of  the  fool ! 

Well — 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster! — Hadst  thou  less  un- 
worthy proved — 

Would  to  God — for  had  I  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was 
loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter 

fruit  ? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mournful  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should 

come 
As   the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads   the   clanging  rookery 

home. 


2llfre&  CentiESOiu  377 

Where  is  comfort  ?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind  ? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew  her,  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd  :  sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move  : 
Such  a  one  I  do  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore  ? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly  :  love  is  love  for  evermore. 

Comfort  ?  comfort  scorn 'd  of  devils!  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to 

proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and 
fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken 

sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt 

weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "  Never,  never,"  whisper'd  by  the  phantom 

years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow :  get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace  ;  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine  ;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  :  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not  his  due, 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's 
heart. 

"  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she  herself  was  not 

exempt — 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd  "—Perish  in  thy  self-contempt ! 


37 8  BlfreD  Zennyson. 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy  !  wherefore  should  I  care? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like 

these  ? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy  :  what  is  that  which  I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 
When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapour, and  the  winds  are  laid  with 
sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honour  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?     I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou   wondrous   Mother- 
Age! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would 

yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn  ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men  : 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something 

new  : 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they 

shall  do  : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world, and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be, 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastl) 

dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue ; 


BlfreD  aenngsom  379 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing 
warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder- 
storm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were 

furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in 

awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced 
eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint  : 
Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping  on  from   point  to 
point  : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigher. 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the 
suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom   lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the 

shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  lie  bears  a  laden 

breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  towards  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn  : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a moulder'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro' all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 


38°  Bitted  Gennyeon. 

Weakness   to   be   wroth  with   weakness!    woman's   pleasure, 

woman's  pain — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded   in  a  shallower 

brain  : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with 

mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine — 

Here   at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.     Ah,  for  some 

retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr'd  ;— 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander  far  away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag, 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from 
the  crag ; 

Droops   the   heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs   the   heavy-fruited 

tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  is  this  march 

of  mind, 
In   the   steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake 

mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall   have  scope  and 

breathing-space : 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the 

brooks, 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy !    but  I  know  my  words  are 

wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 


BlfreD  Genngeon*  3Sl 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  in 
Ajalon  ! 

Not   in   vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward,  forward,  let  us 

range, 
Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of 

change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day  : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother-Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun: 
Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh 
the  Sun. 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall  ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree 
fall. 

Comes  a  vapour  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and 

holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow ; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE. 

Deep  on  the  convent  roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent  towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 


382  BlfreD  Zennyson. 

Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord  !  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strovvs  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up  !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINEVERE, 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapour  everywhere, 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 
And  far,  in  forest  deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm  tree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 


BlfrcD  Zennveon.  3%3 

Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song  ; 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong : 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong  : 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut  buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring  : 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before, 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore, 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy  net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set  : 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


THE  EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands  ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 


384  Btfrefc  {reunion. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls; 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


"COME  NOT  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD." 

Come  not  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry  ; 

But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime, 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest : 
„Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of  Time, 

And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie ; 

Go  by,  go  by. 


"MOVE   EASTWARD." 

Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow  : 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
Oh,  happy  planet,  eastward  go  ; 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


"  BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK." 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


BREAK,    BREAK,    BREAK 
ON    THY    COLD   GRAY    STONES,    0    SEA  !  " — PdgC    384. 


BlfreD  Zennyeon.  385 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


SELECTION  FROM  THE  PRINCESS. 

"  Blame  not  thyself  too  much,"  I  said,  "  nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous  laws  ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world  till  now. 
Henceforth  thou  hast  a  helper,  me,  that  know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's  :  they  rise  or  sink 
Together  dwarfed  or  godlike,  bond  or  free  ; 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  nature,  shares  with  man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to  one  goal, 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her  hands  — 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miserable, 
How  shall  men  grow  ?  but  work  no  more  alone  ! 
Our  place  is  much  :  as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding  her — 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her  down — 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 
Within  her — let  her  make  herself  her  own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood. 
For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 
But  diverse :  could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 
Sweet  Love  were  slain  :  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow  ; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man  ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world ; 


386  BlfreD  GemiBSon. 

She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  child  ward  care, 

Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind ; 

Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 

Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words ; 

And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  Time, 

Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ'd  in  all  their  powers, 

Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 

Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each, 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who  love. 

Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men  : 

Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals,  chaste  and  calm : 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind. 

May  these  things  be  !  " 

Sighing  she  spoke  "  I  fear 
They  will  not." 

"  Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watchword  rest 
Of  equal ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal  :  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in  thought, 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one  full  stroke, 
Life." 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke  :  "  A  dream 
That  once  was  mine  !  what  woman  taught  you  this  ?  " 

"  Alone,"  I  said,  "  from  earlier  than  I  know, 
Immersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of  the  world, 
I  loved  the  woman  :  he,  that  doth  not,  lives 
A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self, 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than  death, 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt  with  crime : 
Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved  her,  one 
Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household  ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants, 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men, 
Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 
On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  perforce 
Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved, 
And  girdled  her  with  music.     Happy  he 
With  such  a  mother  !  faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 


BlfreD  Zennveon.  387 

Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and  fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 

"But  I," 
Said  Ida,  tremulously,  "so  all  unlike — 
It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself  with  words  ; 
This  mother  is  your  model.     I  have  heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts  :  they  well  might  be  :  I  seem 
A  mockery  to  my  own  self.     Never,  Prince  ; 
You  cannot  love  me." 

"  Nay  but  thee,"  I  said, 
"  From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictured  eyes, 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen,  and  saw 
Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron  moods 
That  mask'd  thee  from  men's  reverence  up,  and  forced 
Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood  :  now, 
Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro'  thee, 
Indeed  I  love  :  the  new  day  comes,  the  light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 
Lived  over:  lift  thine  eyes  ;  my  doubts  are  dead, 
My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows  ;  the  change, 
This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill'd  it.     Dear, 
Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine, 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half-world  ; 
Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon  my  brows ; 
In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and  this 
Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland  reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds.     Forgive  me, 
I  waste  my  heart  in  signs:  let  be.     My  bride, 
My  wife,  my  life.     O  we  will  walk  this  world, 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 
And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  no  man  knows.     Indeed  I  love  thee  :  come, 
Yield  thyself  up  :  my  hopes  and  thine  are  one  : 
Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thyself : 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust  to  me." 

SONGS  FROM  THE  PRINCESS. 
I. 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  1  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


388  BlfreD  Gennyeon. 

And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears  ! 
For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


II. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  !, 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon  ; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


III. 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 

O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 

Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


Blfrefc  TLennyson.  389 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken 'd  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  to  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square  ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow,  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 


39°  BlfreD  Genngson. 

O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 

Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 

To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green  ? 

O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown : 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

O  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods, 

Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her  mine, 

And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee. 

VI. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands  ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


VII. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  : 
She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry  : 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 


BlfreD  XLetmyeon.  391 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 

"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

VIII. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the  shape 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 

But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  what  answer  should  I  give? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye : 
YetP  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are  seal'd  : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain : 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  : 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF 
WELLINGTON. 


Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty  nation. 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 


302  Blfvefc  Gennyeon. 


Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  tits  an  universal  woe. 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV. 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 

Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

Oh,  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute ; 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long  enduring  blood, 

The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 

Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common  sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O,  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O,  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew, 

O,  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

O,  fallen  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew! 

Such  was  he,  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 

v. 

All  is  over  and  done  : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
And  render  him  to  the  mould. 
,  Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river, 
There  he  shall  rest  forever 


BlfreD  ttenngdotn  393 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  ; 
-And  a  reverent  people  behold 
The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds ; 
Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds, 
Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  ; 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd  ; 
And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roll'd 
Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross, 
And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss; 
He  knew  their  voices  of  old, 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain's  ear  lias  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  ; 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 
With  these  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 
The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
Oh,  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 
To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

VI. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honour'd  guest, 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with 

priest, 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest  ? 
Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man, 
The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 
For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea ; 
His  foes  were  thine;  he  kept  us  free; 
O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 
And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 


394  Blfrefr  Gennyeon. 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights. 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun ; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 

Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won ; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labour'd  rampart  lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines. 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamour  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing  wings; 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down ; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  ! 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square. 

Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves  away  ; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 

And  clown  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 

Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall, 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine  ! 


mtxeb  GenttEson.  395 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people 's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 

VII. 

A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers  ; 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  control ; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown  ; 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne. 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings  ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 
For  ever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  spoke  ; 
Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumour  flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low; 
Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 


396  BlfreD  Genngson. 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 
All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right ; 
Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named' 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


VIII. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 

Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 

Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 

He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 

Lavish  Honour  shower'd  all  her  stars, 

And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 

Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island  story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory ; 

He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 

For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 

Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory; 

He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands. 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done, 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure  : 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory  : 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game 


BlfreD  GennBSon.  397 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 
With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 
Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 


IX. 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see : 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung  : 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere, 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will; 

Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears: 

The  dark  cloud  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears: 

The  black  earth  yawns  :  the  mortal  disappears  ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

He  is  gone  who  seemed  so  great,— 


398  Blfrefc  Xlennyeon. 

Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 

Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 

Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 

Something  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 

God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 


1852. 


The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains — 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He?  tho'  He  be  not  that  which  he  seems? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live  in  dreams? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  limb, 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from  Him  ? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee :  thyself  art  the  reason  why ; 

For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel  "  I  am  I  ?  " 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee  ;  and  thou  fulfillest  thy  doom, 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendour  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with  Spirit  can 

meet — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise :  O  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice, 

Law  is  God,  say  some  :  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool : 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent  in  a  pool ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man  cannot 

see ; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — were  it  not  He? 


BltreD  GennEson.  399 


"FLOWER  IN  THE  CRANNIED  WALL." 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies  : — 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  "IN  MEMORIAM. 
A.  H.  HALLAM. 

OBIT   MDCCCXXXIII. 

STRONG  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face,       * 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade, 
Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute  ; 
Thou  madest  Death  ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 

Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why  ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him :   thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou  : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how  ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know  : 
For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see  ; 
And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 

A  beam  in  darkness :  let  it  grow. 


400  Bltrefc  Zcnnveon. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear: 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me ; 

What  seemed  my  worth  since  I  began  ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
•  I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  : 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 


IV. 

To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark  ; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark, 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say : 


Blfrefc  Gennveon.  4°i 

0  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 
That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire, 

"  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low?  " 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes: 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 

V. 

1  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 
And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 

A  use  in  measured  language  lies ; 

The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 
Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


One  writes,  that  "  Other  friends  remain," 
That  "  Loss  is  common  to  the  race,"— 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more  : 
Too  common  !     Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 

Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 


4°2  BlfrcD  aenngson. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor, — while  thy  head  is  bow'd, 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud, 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something  thought; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home ; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  "  here  to-day," 

Or  "  here  to-morrow  will  he  come." 

O  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  I 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 
In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 
And  thinking  "  this  will  please  him  best," 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  colour  burns ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right ; 

And,  even  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  Lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the  ford. 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 


Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street. 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 


Btfreb  ftenngson.  403 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more, — 

Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 

And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 
At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ;  but  far  away 

The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 

And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 
On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

VIII. 

A  happy  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway  bell, 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home ; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 
Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall, 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet, 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street, 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 

In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 

A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 
Which  once  she  foster'd  up  with  care, 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret. 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanish'd  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 

IX. 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains. 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 


4°4  Blfre&  ZennvBon. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ;  a  favourable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


x. 

I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night ; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'd  men  from  foreign  lands  ; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him  :  we  have  idle  dreams  : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies  :  O  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine ; 
And  hands  so  often  clas'd  in  mine, 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


Blfrefc  ftenngsom  405 

XI. 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 

Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 

And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 

These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall; 

And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 
If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair: 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


XIX. 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken'd  heart  that  beat  no  more; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills  ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When  fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 


4°6  BlfreD  XLenttyson. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  ; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


XXIV. 

And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 

Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met, 
This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  our  first  sun  arose  and  set. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so  great  ? 

To  lowness  of  the  present  state, 
That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 

A  glory  from  its  being  far ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 


My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 
That  life  shall  live  for  evermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is ; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty  ;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I  ? 

'Twere  hardly  worth  my  while  to  choose 
Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 

A  little  patience  ere  I  die ; 


BlfreD  Genngsoiu  407 

'Twere  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 
Like  birds  the  charming  serpent  draws, 
To  drop  head  foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness  and  to  cease. 


Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower  \ 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes  ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love  ; 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming  as  is  meet  and  fit 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each  ; 

And  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 

The  full  grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern ! 
How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheered  with  tidings  of  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return, 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast, 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most, 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old: 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low  ; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know. 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 


4°8  Blfrefc  {Tennyson. 

LI. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame 

And  I  be  lessen'd  in  his  love  ? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  ; 

Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 

There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death  : 
The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro'. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall: 
Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


LIV. 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  no  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete , 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivel'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last— far  off— at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring, 


2Ufre&  Henngson.  4°9 

So  runs  my  dream  :  but  what  am  I  ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night  : 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light  : 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


LV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life  ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


LXII. 

Tho'  if  an  eye  that's  downward  cast 

Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench  or  fail, 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past ; 


And  thou  as  one  that  once  declined, 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind  ; 


4i°  BlfreD  Zennyson. 

And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies, 
Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 

Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 


Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 

And  on  a  simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys, 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire  ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labour  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands: 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ?  " 


XCIV. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, 

With  what  divine  affections  bold 

Should  be  the  man  whose  thought  would  hold 
An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 


Blfrefc  Gennyeon.  411 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 
The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 

Imaginations  calm  and  fair, 

The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air, 
The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest: 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 

And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 

They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 
And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


XCVI. 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  : 

Perplexed  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 


CVIII. 

I  will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 

And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 

I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind  : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho'  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 

What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 

But  mine  own  phantom  chanting  hymns? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there  swims 

The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 


4i2  mtveb  Zennyson. 

I'll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee. 


CXIII. 

'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise ; 
Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 

But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise ; 

For  can  I  doubt,  who  knew  the  keen 

In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 

To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil — 
I  doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  : 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go, 
With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 

CXIV. 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ?     Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?    May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper  !     Who  shall  fix 

Her  pillars  ?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire: 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain — 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death, 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 


Bltrefc  Zennyeon.  413 

Of  Demons  ?  fiery-hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.     Let  her  know  her  place  ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 

If  all  be  not  in  vain  ;  and  guide 

Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 
With  Wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 

But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 

O,  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 
So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

cxv. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 

The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 

And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 
The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 

The  flocks  are  whiter  clown  the  vale, 

And  milkier  every  milky  sail 
On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea  ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood  ;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land  ;  and  in  my  breast 

Spring  wakens  too  ;  and  my  regret 

Becomes  an  April  violet, 
And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


4H  BlfreD  GeniiEson. 

CXVI. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 

The  colours  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all :  the  songs,  the  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust, 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret :  the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone ; 
And  that  dear  voice,  I  once  have  known, 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine  : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune  dead  ; 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 


CXXIV. 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless : 
Our  dearest  faith  ;  our  ghastliest  doubt ; 
He,  They,  One,  All ;  within,  without; 

The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess ; 

I  found  him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye  ; 
Nor  thro'  the  questions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun: 

If  e'er  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice  "  believe  no  more  " 
And  heard  an  ever  breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep ; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer'd  "  I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear: 

But  that  blind  clamour  made  me  wise; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 


2UfreD  Gennyeon.  4X5 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands; 

And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 
That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 


CXXXI. 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


STRAY  LINES  FROM  IN  MEMORIAM. 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves  but  knows  not,  reaps 
A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows  ? 

I  hold  it  true,  what  e'er  befall, 
I  feel  it  when  I  sorrow  most ; 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die, 
Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine. 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 

There  no  shade  can  last 
In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb 
But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall  bloom 
The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past. 


4i 6  Blfrefc  Genngson. 

The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 
Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 


And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 
Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 
That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 

What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 
In  endless  age  ?     It  rests  with  God. 

But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 
The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends. 


Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 
How  is  it  ?    Canst  thou  feel  for  me 
Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain? 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall ; 
'Tis  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this ; 
I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 
And  that  serene  result  of  all. 


And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 
More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought. 


"a  voice  by  the  cedar  tree 

IN  THE  MEADOW  UNDER  THE  HALL  !  "—Page  *t¥\. 


BlfreD  Genngson.  4*7 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 
That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 

One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 

And  one  far-off  divine  event 
To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  MAUD. 

We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her 

flower ; 
Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a 

game 
That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed  ? 
Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour; 
We  whisper,  and  hint,  and   chuckle,  and  grin  at  a  brother's 

shame  ; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a  little  breed. 

A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran, 
And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature's  crowning  race. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth, 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man : 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last?  is  he  not  too  base? 

The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain, 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit  bounded  and  poor; 
The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whiiTd  into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a  temperate  brain ; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 

For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 
Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them 

about  ? 
Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 
Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall  ?  shall  I  shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail? 
Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout  ? 
/  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 

A  voice  by  the  cedar  tree, 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 

A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 


4l8  Blfrefc  Genngson. 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 

And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honour  that  cannot  die, 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and  mean. 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice, 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still !  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a  choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore, 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet 

Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn'd 

On  the  blossom'd  gable-ends 

At  the  head  of  the  village  street, 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet  ? 

And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile  so  sweet 

She  made  me  divine  amends 

For  a  courtesy  not  return 'd. 

And  thus  a  delicate  spark 

Of  glowing  and  growing  light 

Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 

Kept  itself  warm  in  the  heart  of  my  dreams, 

Ready  to  burst  in  a  colour'd  flame ; 

Till  at  last,  when  the  morning  came 

In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 

But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 


Blfrefc  Genn£6on,  419 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 

When  twilight  was  falling, 
Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

They  were  crying  and  calling. 

Where  was  Maud  ?  in  our  wood 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 

Birds  in  our  wood  sang 

Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 
Maud  is  here,  here,  here 

In  among  the  lilies. 

I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 

She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 
Maud  is  not  seventeen, 

But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favour  ! 

0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

1  know  the  way  she  went 

Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 
For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 

Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 
Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charley  snarling. 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 

You  are  not  her  darling. 


Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


420  mtxet)  ZennyBon. 

When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

Over  glowing  ships ; 
Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West ; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar  tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush,  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 

I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for-end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 


I. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


II. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 


Blfrefc  Zennvson.  421 

in. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

IV. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

v. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  svvare  to  the  rose, 
"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

VI. 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall ; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 
For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

VII. 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


422  Blfrefc  Zennveon. 

VIII. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree : 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

IX. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


X. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries.  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near;' 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late ; " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear ;  " 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


XI. 

O  that  'twere  possible 

After  long  grief  and  pain 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 

Round  me  once  again  ! 


Blfrefc  aenngeon.  423 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee ; 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING. 

1. 

DEDICATION. 

These  to  His  memory — since  he  held  them  dear, 
Perchance  as  finding  there  unconsciously 
Some  image  of  himself — I  dedicate, 
I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears — 
These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 
"  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his  king  ; 
Whose  glory  was,  redressing  human  wrong ; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd  to  it ; 
Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to  her — " 
Her — over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last  isle, 
Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  imminent  war, 
The  shadow  of  His  loss  drew  like  eclipse, 
Darkening  the  world.  We  have  lost  him  :  he  is  gone  : 
We  know  him  now  :  all  narrow  jealousies 
Are  silent  ;  and  we  see  him  as  he  moved, 
How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish'd,  wise, 
With  what  sublime  repression  of  himself, 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly; 
Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 
Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless  perch 
Of  wing'd  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage-ground 
For  pleasure  ;  but  thro' all  this  tract  of  years 
Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life, 
Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 


424  Blfrefc  GemtBeom 

In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a  throne, 
And  blackens  every  blot :  for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstain'd,  than  his? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of  his  sons 
Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inheritance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine, 
Thou  noble  Father  of  her  kings  to  be, 
Laborious  for  her  people  and  her  poor — 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler  day — 
Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and  Waste 
To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace — 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious  gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  clear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince  indeed, 
Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household  name, 
Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the  Good. 

Break  not,  O  woman 's-heart,  but  still  endure  ; 
Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure, 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 
Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee  that  ye  made 
One  light  together,  but  has  past  and  leaves 
The  Crown  a  lonely  splendour. 

II. 

SONGS  FROM  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

" '  O  Sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or  pain, 
O  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 
Shine  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

" '  O  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the  sun, 
O  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is  done, 
Blow  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"  '  O  birds,  that  warble  to  the  morning  sky, 
O  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by, 
Sing  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me/ 

"  '  O  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 
O  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven  true, 
Smile  sweetly,  thou  !  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

44  *  O  trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy  plain, 
O  rainbow  with  three  colours  after  rain, 
Shine  sweetly :  thrice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.'  " 


BlfreD  Zennveon.  425 


SELECTION  FROM  ENID  AND  GERAINT. 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle  court, 
His  charger  trampling  many  a  prickly  star 
Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken  stones. 
He  look'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed  with  fern ; 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a  tower, 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the  cliff, 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding  flowers ; 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair, 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent,  wound 
Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy-stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy  fibred  arms, 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones  and  look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a  grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle  court, 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol's  daughter,  rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the  Hall, 
Singing;  and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a  bird, 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle, 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird  it  is 
That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and  make 
Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the  form  ; 
So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  Geraint ; 
And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at  morn 
When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of  men 
Comes  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemmed  with  green  and  red, 
And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a  friend, 
Or  it  may  be  the  labour  of  his  hands, 
To  think  or  say,  "  there  is  the  nightingale," 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought  and  said, 
"  Here,  by  God's  grace,  is  the  one  voice  for  me." 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang  was  one 
Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid  sang : 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  proud  ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine,  storm,  and  cloud; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 


426  Blfrefc  Gennyson. 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or  frown; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

" Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands  ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

"  Turn  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate." 

"  Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  ye  may  learn  the  nest," 
Said  Yniol ;  "  Enter  quickly."     Entering  then, 
Right  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen  stones, 
The  dusky  rafter's  many-cobweb'd  Hall, 
He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  brocade ; 
And  near  her,  like  a  blossom  vermeil  white, 
That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower-sheath, 
Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk, 
Her  daughter.     In  a  moment  thought  Geraint, 
"  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me." 

IV. 

STRAY  LINES  FROM  ENID  AND  GERAINT. 

O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  ourselves, 
By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for  true  ; 
Here,  thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this  world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and  reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are  seen  ! 

"  Yet  fear  me  not :  I  call  mine  own  self  wild, 

But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 

Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilderness." 

"  Because  I  knew  my  deeds  were  known, 
I  found,  instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 
Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence 
Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a  grace  of  tenderest 
courtesy." 


mtxet>  GemtESom  427 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Paradise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  flew ; 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind 
Than  lived  thro'  her,  who  in  that  perilous  hour 
Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  husband's  heart  and 
felt  him  hers  again  : 

She  did  not  weep, 
But  o'er  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy  mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden  green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain. 

v. 

SONG  FROM  MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 

In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours, 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers : 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 

That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 

And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

It  is  not  worth  the  keeping :  let  it  go : 
But  shall  it?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. 


VI. 

SONG  FROM   LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song, 

And  call'd  her  song,  "  The  song  of  Love  and  Death. 

And  sang  it :  sweetly  could  she  make  and  sing. 

"  Sweet  is  true  love  tho'  given  in  vain,  in  vain  ; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain  : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet?  then  bitter  death  must  be; 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 
O  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 


428  BlfreD  GennESon. 

"  Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be  ; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me  ; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow !  let  me  die." 

VII. 

STRAY   LINES    FROM    LANCELOT  AND 
ELAINE. 

His  honour  rooted  in  dishonour  stood. 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Never  yet  was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a  foe. 

Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings. 

VIII. 

SONGS  FROM  THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

"  '  Free  love — free  field — we  love  but  while  we  may : 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is  no  more: 
The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past  away ; 
New  leaf,  new  life — the  days  of  frost  are  o'er : 
New  life,  new  love  to  suit  the  newest  day  : 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went  before : 
Free  love— free  field — we  love  but  while  we  may.' 

"  Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  bend  the  brier  ! 
A  star  in  heaven,  a  star  within  the  mere ! 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — a  star  was  my  desire, 
And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was  near : 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  bow  the  grass ! 
And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was  fire, 
And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will  pass. 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  move  the  mere." 

IX. 

SONG  FROM  GUINEVERE. 

"  Late,  late,  so  late  !  and  dark  the  night  and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 


BlfreD  Genngsom  429 

"  No  light  had  we  :  for  that  we  do  repent ; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late :  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  No  light :  so  late  :  and  dark  and  chill  the  night ! 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

11  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet  ? 
O  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now." 


x. 

THE   FAREWELL   OF   ARTHUR. 

{From  "  Guinevere.") 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  such  a  trance, 
And  moving  through  the  past  unconsciously, 
Came  to  that  point  where  first  she  saw  the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to  find 
Her  journey  done,  glanced  at  him,  thought  him  cold, 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless,  not  like  him, 
"  Not  like  my  Lancelot" — while  she  brooded  thus 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts  again, 
There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery  ran, 
Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,  "  the  King."     She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,  listening;  but  when  armed  feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she  fell, 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the  floor  ; 
There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and  shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the  King ; 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  feet 
Pause  by  her  :  then  came  silence,  then  a  voice, 
Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho'  changed,  the  King's. 

"  Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of  one 
I  honour'd,  happy,  dead  before  thy  shame? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and  fire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 
The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless  hosts 


43°  BlfreD  Cenngsom 

Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern  Sea ; 
Whom  I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my  right  arm, 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode  with  me, 
Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of  Christ 
In  twelve  great  battles  ruining  overthrown. 
And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I  come — from  him. 
From  waging  bitter  war  with  him  :  and  he, 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse  way, 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him  left,^ 
He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the  King 
Who  made  him  knight :  but  many  a  knight  was  slain  ; 
And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and  kin 
Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own  land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised  revolt, 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with  me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part, 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I  live, 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on, 
Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  be  harm'd. 
Fear  not :  thou  shalt  be  guarded  till  my  death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet  my  doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to  me, 
That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to  live  ; 
For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my  life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  1  show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou  hast  sinn'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 
Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  fill'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a  deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress'd  a  random  wrong. 
But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 
The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and  all 
The  realms  together  under  me,  their  Head, 
In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men, 
To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world, 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
I  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine  and  swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as  their  King, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the  Christ, 
To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it, 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 


Bltrefc  Genngson,  43 J 

And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 

Until  they  won  her;  for  indeed  I  knew 

Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 

Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 

Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 

But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable  words 

And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man. 

And  all  this  throve  until  I  wedded  thee, 

Believing,  '  lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 

My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy.' 

Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lancelot ; 

Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt  ; 

Then  others,  following  these  my  mightiest  knights, 

And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair  names, 

Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 

Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain, 

And  all  thro'  thee !  so  that  this  life  of  mine 

I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe  and  wrong. 

Not  greatly  care  to  lose  ;  but  rather  think 

How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he  live, 

To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall, 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my  knights, 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could  speak 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at  thee? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 

Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room  to  room, 

And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 

In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 

For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not  love  thy  lord, 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 

I  am  not  made  of  so  sljght  elements. 

Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy  shame. 

I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's  sake, 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the  wife 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the  house  : 

For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 

Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure, 

She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 

Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the  crowd, 

Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the  pulse 

With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the  young. 


43 2  Blfrefc  Genngson. 

Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that  reigns ! 
Better  the  King's  waste  hearth  and  aching  heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light, 
The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their  bane." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew, 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war  horse  neigh 'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again  : 

"  Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge  thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head, 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on  that  fierce  law, 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming  death, 
(When  first  I  learned  thee  hidden  here)  is  past, 
The  pang — which  while  I  weigh'd  thy  heart  with  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee, 
Made  my  tears  burn — is  also  past — in  part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo  !  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives  :  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved  ? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing!     O  imperial-moulded  form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore, 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee — 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine, 

But  Lancelot's  :  nay,  they  never  were  the  King's. 

I  cannot  take  thy  hand  ;  that  too  is  flesh, 

And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd ;  and  mine  own  flesh, 

Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted,  cries 

1  I  loathe  thee  : '  yet  not  less,  O  Guinevere, 

For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 

My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into  my  life 

So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 

Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee  still. 

Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 

And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 

Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 

We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thou 

Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and  know 

I  am  thine  husband — not  a  smaller  soul, 


BlfreD  ftenuESon.  433 

Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.     Leave  me  that, 

I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.     Now  must  I  hence. 

Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet  blow  : 

They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine  hosts 

Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west, 

Where  I  must  strike  against  the  man  they  call 

My  sister's  son— no  kin  of  mine,  who  leagues 

With  lords  of  the  White  House,  heathen,  and  knights — 

Traitors — and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet  myself 

Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious  doom. 

And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the  event ; 

But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 

Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more, 

Farewell ! " 


TO  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

MY  GRANDSON. 

Golden-hair'd  Ally  whose  name  is  one  with  mine, 

Crazy  with  laughter  and  babble  and  earth's  new  wine, 

Now  that  the  flower  of  a  year  and  a  half  is  thine, 

O  little  blossom,  O  mine,  and  mine  of  mine, 

Glorious  poet  who  never  has  writ  a  line, 

Laugh,  for  the  name  at  the  head  of  my  verse  is  thine. 

May'st  thou  never  be  wrong'd  by  the  name  that  is  mine. 

RIZPAH. 

17—. 
I. 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land  and  sea — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  "  O  mother,  come  out  to  me." 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he  knows  that  I  cannot 

go? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and  the  full  moon  stares  at 

the  snow. 

II. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear;  they  would  spy  us  out  of  the 

town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the  storm  rushing  over  the 

down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am  led  by  the  creak  of 

the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I  find  myself  drenched 

with  the  rain. 


434  Blfrefc  Cenngson. 

in. 

Any  thing  fallen  again  ?  nay — what  was  there  left  to  fall  ? 

I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  number'd  the  bones,  I  have 

hidden  them  all. 
What  am  I  saying  ?  and  what  are  you?  do  you  come  as  a  spy  ? 
Falls  ?  what  falls  ?  who  knows  ?     As  the  tree  falls  so  must  it 

lie. 

IV. 

Who  let  her  in  ?  how  long  has  she  been  ?  you — what  have  you 

heard  ? 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  ?  you  never  have  spoken  a  word. 
O — to  pray  with  me — yes— a  lady — none  of  their  spies — 
But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart,  and  begun  to  darken 

my  eyes. 

v. 

Ah— you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what  should  you  know  of  the 

night, 
The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the  bitter  frost  and  the 

fright  ? 
I  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep — you  were  only  made  for 

the  day. 
I  have  gathered  my  baby  together — and  now  you  may  go  your 

way. 

VI. 

Nay — for  it's  kind  of  you,  Madam,  to  sit  by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have  only  an  hour  of  life. 
I  kissed  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he  went  out  to  die. 
"  They  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said,  and  he  never  has  told  me 

a  lie. 
I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once  when  he  was  but  a 

child— 
"  The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said  ;  he  was  always  so 

wild — 
And   idle— and  couldn't  be  idle— my  Willy— he  never  could 

rest. 
The  king  should  have  made  him  a  soldier,  he  would  have  been 

one  of  his  best. 

VII. 

But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and  they  never  would  let 

him  be  good ; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail,  and  he  swore  that 

he  would ; 


mttet)  Zennyeon.  435 

And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse,  and  when  all  was 

done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows — I'll  none  of  it,  said  my  son. 

VIII. 

I  came  into  the  court  to  the  Judge  and  the  lawyers.     I  told 
.  them  my  tale, 

God's  own  truth — but  they  kill'd  him,  they  kill'd  him  for  rob- 
bing the  mail. 

They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show — we  had  always  borne 
a  good  name — 

To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief — and  then  put  away — isn't  that 
enough  shame  ? 

Dust  to  dust — low  down — let  us  hide  !  but  they  set  him  so 
high 

That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare  at  him,  passing  by. 

God'll  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and  horrible  fowls  of  the 
air, 

But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who  kill'd  him  and  hang'd 
him  there. 

IX. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.  I  had  bid  him  my  last  good- 
bye ; 

They  had  fastened  the  door  of  his  cell.  "  O  mother  !  "  I  heard 
him  cry. 

I  couldn't  get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had  something  further  to  say, 

And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.     The  jailer  forced  me  away. 


Then  since  I  couldn't  but  hear  that  cry  of  my  boy  that  was 

dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up  :  they  fasten'd  me  down  on 

my  bed. 
"  Mother,  O  mother !  "  he  call'd  in  the  dark  to  me  year  after 

year — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me — you  know  that  I  couldn't 

but  hear ; 
And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had  grown  so  stupid  and  still 
They  let  me  abroad  again — but  the  creatures  had  worked  their 

will. 

XI. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my  bone  was  left — 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers — and  you,  will  you  call  it  a 
theft?- 


436  Blfrefc  {reunion. 

My  baby,  the  bones  that   had  suck'd  me,  the  bones  that  had 

laughed  and  had  cried — 
Theirs  ?  O  no  !  they  are  mine — not  theirs — they  had  moved  in 

my  side. 

XII. 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones  ?  I  kiss'd  'em,  I  buried 

'em  all — 
I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old — in  the  night  by  the  churchyard 

wall, 
My  Willy'Il  rise  up  whole  when  the  trumpet  of  judgment'll 

sound, 
But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid  him  in  holy  ground. 

XIII. 

They  would  scratch  him  up — they  would  hang  him  again  on 

the  cursed  tree. 
Sin  ?  O  yes — we  are  sinners,  I  know — let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's  good-will  toward 

men — 
"  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,,  the  Lord  " — let  me  hear  it 

again  ; 
"  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy — long  suffering."     Yes,  O  yes! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder — the  Saviour  lives  but  to 

bless. 

Hell  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except  for  the  worst  of  the 

worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last — I  have  heard  it  in  church — and  the 

last  may  be  first. 
Suffering — O  long-suffering — yes,  as  the  Lord  must  know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind  and  the  shower  and 

the  snow. 

XIV. 

Heard,  have  you  ?  what?  they  have  told  you  he  never  repented 

his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it?  are  they  his  mother  ?  axzyou  of  his  kin  ? 
Heard  !  have  you  ever  heard,  when  the  storm  on  the  downs 

began  ? 
The  wind  that'll  wail  like  a  child,  and   the  sea  that'll  moan 

like  a  man  ? 


Election,  Election,  and  Reprobation — it's  all  very  well. 

But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall  not  find  him  in  Hell. 


BlfreD  TLennyecm.  437 

For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the  Lord  has  look'd  into 

my  care, 
And  He  means  me  I'm  sure  to  be  happy  with  Willy,  I  know 

not  where. 

XVI. 

And  if  he  be  lost — but  to  save  my  soul,  that  is  all  your  desire : 
Do  you  think  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark — go,  go,  you  may  leave  me 

alone — 
You  never  have  borne  a  child — you  are  just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 


XVII. 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  think  that  you  mean  to  be  kind, 
But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my  Willy's  voice  in  the 

wind — 
The  snow  and  sky  so  bright — he  used  but  to  call  in  the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church  and  not  from  the 

gibbet — for  hark  ! 
Nay — you   can    hear   it   yourself — it   is   coming — shaking   the 

walls — 
Willy— the  moon's  in  a  cloud Good-night.     I  am  going. 

He  calls. 


DEDICATORY  POEM  TO  THE  PRINCESS  ALICE. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that,  which  lived 

True  life,  live  on — and  if  the  fatal  kiss, 

Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce  thee  not 

From  earthly  love  and  life — if  what  we  call 

The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from  out 

This  shadow  into  Substance — then  perhaps 

The  mellow'd  murmur  of  the  people's  praise 

From  thine  own  State,  and  all  our  breadth  of  realm, 

Where  Love  and  Longing  dress  thy  deeds  in  light, 

Ascends  to  thee ;  and  this  March  morn  that  sees 

Thy  Soldier-brother's  bridal-orange  bloom 

Break  thro'  the  yews  and  cypress  of  thy  grave, 

And  thine  Imperial  mother  smile  again, 

May  send  one  ray  to  thee  !  and  who  can  tell — 

Thou — England's  England-loving  daughter — thou 

Dying  so  English  thou  wouldst  have  her  flag 

Borne  on  thy  coffin — where  is  he  can  swear 


438  BIfret)  XLennyeon.  • 

But  that  some  broken  gleam  from  our  poor  earth 
May  touch  thee,  while  remembering  thee,  I  lay 
At  thy  pale  feet  this  ballad  of  the  deeds 
Of  England,  and  her  banner  in  the  East? 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 

THE  TWO   GREETINGS. 


Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep, 

Where  all  that  was  to  be  in  all  that  was 

Whirl'd  for  a  million  seons  thro'  the  vast 

Waste  dawn  of  multitudinous-eddying  light — 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep, 

Thro'  all  this  changing  world  of  changeless  law, 

And  every  phase  of  ever-heightening  life, 

And  nine  long  months  of  antenatal  gloom, 

With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent — her  dark  orb 

Touch'd  with  earth's  light — thou  comest,  darling  boy; 

Our  own  ;  a  babe  in  lineament  and  limb 

Perfect,  and  prophet  of  the  perfect  man ; 

Whose  face  and  form  are  hers  and  mine  in  one, 

Indissolubly  married  like  our  love  ; 

Live  and  be  happy  in  thyself,  and  serve 

This  mortal  race  thy  kin  so  well,  that  men 

May  bless  thee  as  we  bless  thee ;  O  young  life, 

Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark;  and  may 

The  fated  channel  where  thy  motion  lives 

Be  prosperously  shaped,  and  sway  thy  course 

Along  the  years  of  haste  and  random  youth 

Unshatter'd,  then  full-current  thro'  full  man, 

And  last  in  kindly  curves,  with  gentlest  fall, 

By  quiet  fields,  a  slowly-dying  power, 

To  that  last  deep  where  we  and  thou  are  still. 


Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep, 
From  that  great  deep  before  our  world  begins 
Whereon  the  Spirit  of  God  moves  as  he  will — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep, 
From  that  true  world  within  the  world  we  see, 
Whereof  our  world  is  but  the  bounding  shore — 
Out  of  the  deep,  Spirit,  out  of  the  deep, 
With  this  ninth  moon  that  sends  the  hidden  sun 
Down  yon  dark  sea,  thou  comest,  darling  boy. 


BlfreD  Cenngson.  439 

For  in  the  world,  which  is  not  ours,  They  said 

"  Let  us  make  man  "  and  that  which  should  be  man, 

From  that  one  light  no  man  can  look  upon, 

Drew  to  this  shore  lit  by  the  suns  and  moons 

And  all  the  shadows.     O  dear  Spirit,  half-lost 

In  thine  own  shadow  and  this  fleshy  sign 

That  thou  art  thou — who  wailest  being  born 

And  banish'd  into  mystery,  and  the  pain 

Of  this  divisible-indivisible  world 

Among  the  numerable-innumerable 

Sun,  sun,  and  sun,  thro'  finite-infinite  space 

In  finite-infinite  time — our  mortal  veil 

And  shatter'd  phantom  of  that  infinite  One, 

Who  made  thee  unconceivably  thyself 

Out  of  His  whole  World-self  and  all  in  all — 

Live  thou,  and  of  the  grain  and  husk,  the  grape 

And  ivyberry,  choose  ;  and  still  depart 

From  death  to  death  thro'  life  and  life,  and  find 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer  Him,  who  wrought 

Not  Matter,  nor  the  finite-infinite, 

But  this  main  miracle,  that  thou  art  thou, 

With  power  on  thine  own,  act  and  on  the  world. 


SONGS  FROM  THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 

How  far  thro'  all  the  bloom  and  brake 

That  nightingale  is  heard  ! 
What  power  but  the  bird's  could  make 

This  music  in  the  bird  ? 
How  summer-bright  are  yonder  skies, 

And  earth  as  fair  in  hue  ! 
And  yet  what  sign  of  aught  that  lies 

Behind  the  green  and  blue  ? 
But  man  to-day  is  fancy's  fool 

As  man  hath  ever  been. 
The  nameless  Power,  or  Powers,  that  rule 

Were  never  heard  or  seen. 


What  Power  but  the  Years  that  make 
And  break  the  vase  of  clay, 

And  stir  the  sleeping  earth,  and  wake 
The  bloom  that  fades  away  ? 


44°  Blfrefc  CenttESon. 

What  rulers  but  the  Days  and  Hours 
That  cancel  weal  with  woe, 

And  wind  the  front  of  youth  with  flowers, 
And  cap  our  age  with  snow  ? 


But  vain  the  tears  for  darken'd  years 

As  laughter  over  wine, 
And  vain  the  laughter  as  the  tears, 

O  brother,  mine  or  thine. 


For  all  that  laugh,  and  all  that  weep 
And  all  that  breathe  are  one 

Slight  ripple  on  the  boundless  deep, 
That  moves  and  all  is  gone ! 


Yet  wine  and  laughter  friends  !  and  set 
The  lamp's  delight,  and  call 

For  golden  music,  and  forget 
The  darkness  of  the  pall  ? 


The  years  that  make  the  stripling  wise 

Undo  their  work  again, 
And  leave  him,  blind  of  heart  and  eyes, 

The  last  and  least  of  men  ; 
Who  clings  to  earth,  and  once  would  dare 

Hell-heat  or  Arctic  cold, 
And  now  one  breath  of  cooler  air 

Would  loose  him  from  his  hold ; 
His  winter  chills  him  to  the  root, 

He  withers  marrow  and  mind ; 
The  kernel  of  the  shrivell'd  fruit 

Is  jutting  thro'  the  rind  ; 
The  tiger  spasms  tear  his  chest, 

The  palsy  wags  his  head  : 
The  wife,  the  sons,  who  love  him  best 

Would  fain  that  he  were  dead ; 
The  griefs  by  which  he  once  was  wrung 

Were  never  worth  the  while, 
The  shaft  of  scorn  that  once  had  stung 

But  wakes  a  dotard  smile. 


Bit  ret)  ftennEson.  441 

SELECTIONS  FROM  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER. 

Late,  my  grandson  !  half  the  morning  have  I  paced  these  sandy- 
tracts  ; 
Watch'd  again  the  hollow  ridges  roaring  into  cataracts, 

Wander'd  back  to  living  boyhood  while  I  heard  the  curlew's 

call, 
I  myself  so  close  on  death,  and  death  itself  in  Locksley  Hall. 

So — your  happy  suit  was  blasted — she  the  faultless,  the  divine; 
And  you  liken — boyish   babble — this   boy-love   of   yours  with 
mine. 

I  myself  have  often  babbled  doubtless  of  a  foolish  past ; 
Babble,  babble  ;    our  old  England  may  go  down  in  babble  at 
last. 

"  Curse  him  ! "    curse  your  fellow-victim  ?  call  him  dotard  in 

your  rage  ? 
Eyes  that  lured  a  doting  boyhood  well  might  fool  a  dotard's 

age. 

Jilted  for  a  wealthier  !    wealthier  ?    yet  perhaps   she  was  not 

wise ; 
I  remember  how  you  kiss'd  the  miniature  with   those  sweet 

eyes. 

In  the  hall  there  hangs  a  painting — Amy's   arms  about  my 

neck — 
Happy  children  in  a  sunbeam  sitting  on  the  ribs  of  wreck. 

In  my  life  there  was  a  picture,  she  that  clasped  my  neck  had 

flown  ; 
I  was  left  within  the  shadow  sitting  on  the  wreck  alone. 

Yours  has  been  a  slighter  ailment,  will  you  sicken  for  her  sake? 
You,  not  you  !  your  modern  amourist  is  of  easier,  earthier  make. 

Amy  lov'd  me,  Amy  fail'd  me,  Amy  was  a  timid  child  ; 
But  your  Judith — but  your  worldling — she  had  never  driven  me 
wild. 


442  BlfreD  Genngsom 

She  that  holds  the  diamond  necklace  dearer  than  the  golden 

ring, 
She  that  finds  a  winter  sunset  fairer  than  a  morn  in  spring. 

She  that  in  her  heart  is  brooding  on  his  briefer  lease  of  life, 
While  she  vows  "  till  death  shall  part  us  " ;  she  the  would-be 
widow  wife. 

She    the    worldling   born   of    worldlings — father,   mother — be 

content, 
Ev'n  the  homely  farm  can  teach  us   there   is   something   in 

descent. 

Yonder  in  that  chapel,  slowly  sinking  now  into  the  ground, 
Lies  the  warrior,  my  forefather,  with  his  feet  upon  the  hound. 

Cross'd !  for  once  he  sail'd  the  sea  to  crush  the  Moslem  in  his 

pride  ; 
Dead  the  warrior,  dead  his  glory,  dead  the  cause  in  which  he 

died. 

Yet  how  often  I  and  Amy  in  the  mouldering  aisle  have  stood, 
Gazing  for  one  pensive  moment  on  that  founder  of  our  blood. 

There  again  1  stood  to-day,  and  where  of  old  we  knelt  in 
prayer, 

Close  beneath  the  casement  crimson  with  the  shield  of  Locks- 
ley — there, 

All  in  white  Italian  marble,  looking  still  as  if  she  smiled, 
Lies  my  Amy  dead  in  child-birth,  dead  the  mother,  dead  the 
child. 

Dead — and  sixty  years  ago,  and  dead  her  aged  husband  now — 
I  this  old  white-headed  dreamer  stoopt  and  kiss'd  her  marble 
brow. 

Gone  the  fires  of  youth,  the  follies,  furies,  curses,  passionate 
tears, 

Gone  like  fires  and  floods  and  earthquakes  of  the  planet's  dawn- 
ing years : 

Fires  that  shook  me  once,  but  now  to  silent  ashes  fall'n  away. 
Cold  upon  the  dead  volcano  sleeps  the  gleam  of  dying  day. 

Gone  the  tyrant  of  my  youth,  and  mute  below  the  chancel- 
stones, 

All  his  virtues — I  forgive  them — black  in  white  above  his 
bones. 


BlfrcD  GennBeom  443 

Gone  the  comrade  of  my  bivouac,  some  in  fight  against  the  foe, 
Some   through  age  and  slow  diseases,  gone  as  all   on  earth 
will  go. 

Gone  with  whom  for  forty  years  my  life  in   golden   sequence 

ran, 
She  with  all  the  charms  of  woman,  she  with  all  the  breadth  of 

man, 

Strong  in  will  and  rich  in  wisdom,  Edith  ;   yet  so  lowly-sweet, 
Woman  to  the  inmost  heart,  and  woman  to  her  tender  feet, 

Very  woman  of  very  woman,  nurse  of  ailing  body  and  mind, 
She  that  link'd  again  the  broken  chain  that  bound  me  to  my 
kind. 

Here  to-day  was  Amy  with  me,  while   I  wander'd  down  the 

coast, 
Near  us  Edith's  holy  shadow,  smiling  at  the  slighter  ghost. 

Gone  one  sailor  son  thy  father,  Leonard  early  lost  at  sea  ; 
Thou  alone,  my  boy,  of  Amy's  kin  and  mine  art  left  to  me. 

Gone  thy  tender-natured  mother,  wearying  to  be  left  alone, 
Pining  for  the  stronger  heart  that  once  had  beat  beside  her  own. 


Gone  for  ever  !  Ever  ?     No — for  since  our  dying  race  began, 
Ever,  ever,  and  for  ever  was  the  leading  light  of  man. 


France  had  shown  a  light  to  all  men,  preach'd  a  Gospel,  all 

men's  good  ; 
Celtic  Demos  rose  a  Demon,  shriek'd  and  slaked  the  light  with 

blood. 

Hope  was  ever  on  her  mountain,  watching  till  the  day  begun — 
Crown'd  with  sunlight — over  darkness — from  the  still  unrisen  . 
sun. 


On  this  day  and  at  this  hour, 
In  this  gap  between  the  sandhills,  whence  you  see  the  Locksley 
tower, 


444  Blfrefc  GennESon, 

Here  we  met,  our  latest  meeting — Amy — sixty  years  ago — 
She  and  I— the  moon  was  falling  greenish  thro'  a  rosy  glow, 

Just  above  the  gateway  tower,  and  even  where  you  see  her 
now — 

Here  we  stood  and  claspt  each  other,  swore  the  seeming-death- 
less vow.   .   . 

Dead,  but  how  her  living  glory  lights  the  hall,  the  dune,  the 

grass  ! 
Yet  the  moonlight  is  the  sunlight,and  the  sun  himself  will  pass. 

Here  is  Locksley  Hall,  my  grandson,  here  the  lion-guarded 

gate. 
Not  to-night  in  Locksley  Hall — to-morrow — you,  you  come  so 

late. 

Wreck'd — your  train — or  all  but  wreck'd  ?  a  shatter'd  wheel  ? 

a  vicious  boy ! 
Good,  this  forward,  you  that  preach  it,  is  it  well  to  wish  you 


Is  it  well  that  while  we  range  with  Science,  glorying  in  the 

Time, 
City  children  soak  and  blacken  soul  and  sense  in  city  slime  ? 

There  among  the  glooming  alleys  Progress  halts  on  palsied 

feet, 
Crime  and  hunger  cast  our  maidens  by  the  thousand  on  the 

street. 

There  the  Master  scrimps  his  haggard  sempstress  of  her  daily 

bread, 
There  a  single  sordid  attic  holds  the  living  and  the  dead. 

There  the  smouldering  fire  of  fever  creeps  across  the  rotted 

floor, 
And  the  crowded  couch  of  incest  in  the  warrens  of  the  poor. 

Nay,  your  pardon,  cry  your  "  forward,"  yours  are   hope  and 

youth,  but  I  — 
Eighty  winters  leave  the  dog  too  lame  to  follow  with  the  cry, 

Lame  and  old,  and  past  his  time,  and   passing  now  into  the 

night ; 
Yet  I  would  the  rising  race  were  half  as  eager  for  the  light. 


BlfreD  GenitBSon.  445 

Light  the  fading-  gleam  of  Even?  light  the  glimmer  of  the 
dawn  ? 

Aged  eyes  may  take  the  growing  glimmer  for  the  gleam  with- 
drawn. 

Far  away  beyond  her  myriad  coming  changes  earth  will  be 
Something  other  than  the  wildest  modern  guess  of  you  and  me. 

Earth  may  reach  her  earthly-worst,  or  if  she  gain  her  earthly- 
best, 
Would  she  find  her  human  offspring  this  ideal  man  at  rest  ? 

Forward  then,  but  still  remember  how  the  course  of  Time  will 

swerve, 
Crook   and   turn  upon  itself  in   many  a  backward  streaming 

curve. 

Not  the  Hall  to-night,  my  grandson  !  Death  and  Silence  hold 

their  own, 
Leave  the  Master  in  the  first  dark  hour  of  his  last  sleep  alone. 

Worthier  soul  was  he  than  I  am,  sound  and  honest,  rustic 

Squire, 
Kindly  landlord,  boon  companion — youthful  jealousy  is  a  liar. 

Cast  the  poison  from  your  bosom,  oust  the  madness  from  your 

brain. 
Let  the  trampled  serpent  show  you  that  you  have  not  lived  in 

vain. 

Youthful !  youth   and  age  are  scholars  yet  but  in  the  lower 

school, 
Nor  is  he  the  wisest  man  who  never  proved  himself  a  fool. 

Yonder  lies  our  young  sea  village — Art  and  Grace  are  less 

and  less : 
Science    grows   and    Beauty  dwindles — roofs   of  slated    hicl- 

eousness ! 

There  is  one  old  Hostel  left  us  where  they  swing  the  Locksley 

shield, 
Till  the  peasant  cow  shall  butt  the  "  Lion  passant "  from  his 

field. 

Poor  old  Heraldry,  poor  old  History,  poor  old  Poetry,  passing 

hence, 
In  the  common  deluge  drowning  old  political  common-sense  ! 


446  Blfrefc  aenngeon. 

Poor  old  voice  of  eighty  crying  after  voices  that  have  fled  ! 
All  I  loved  are  vanish 'd  voices,  all  my  steps  are  on  the  dead.' 

All  the  world  is  ghost  to  me,  and  as  the  phantom  disappears, 
Forward  far  and  far  from  here  is  all  the  hope  of  eighty  years. 


In  this  Hostel — I  remember — I  repent  it  o'er  his  grave — 
Like  a  clown — by  chance  he  met  me — I  refused  the  hand  he 
gave. 

From  that  casement  where  the  trailer  mantles  all  the  moulder- 
ing bricks — 
I  was  then  in  early  boyhood,  Edith  but  a  child  of  six — 

While    I   shelter'd   in   this    archway    from   a   day  of   driving 

showers — 
Peept  the   winsome  face   of  Edith  like  a  flower  among  the 

flowers. 

Here  to-night !  the  Hall  to-morrow,  when  they  toll  the  Chapel 

bell ! 
Shall  I  hear  in  one  dark  room  a  wailing,  "  I  have  loved  thee 

well." 

Then  a  peal  that  shakes  the  portal — one  has  come  to  claim  his 

bride, 
Her  that  shrank,  and  put  me  from  her,  shriek'd,  and  started 

from  my  side — 

Silent  echoes  !     You,  my  Leonard,  use  and  not  abuse  your  day, 
Move  among  your  people,  know  them,  follow  him  who  led  the 
way, 

Strove  for  sixty  widow'd  years  to  help  his  homelier  brother 

men, 
Served  the  poor,  and  built  the  cottage,  raised  the  school,  and 

drain'd  the  fen. 

Hears  he  now  the  Voice  that  wrong'd  him  ?  who  shall  swear  it 

cannot  be? 
Earth  would  never  touch  her  worst,  were  one  in  fifty  such 

as  he. 

Ere  she  gain  her  Heavenly-best,  a  God  must  mingle  with  the 

game : 
Nay,  there  may  be  those  about  us  whom  we  neither  see  nor 

name. 


Blfrefc  Gennyson.  447 

Felt  within  us  as  ourselves,  the  Powers  of  Good,  the  Powers 

of  111, 
Strowing  balm,  or  shedding  poison  in  the  fountains  of  the  Will, 

Follow  you  the  Star  that  lights  a  desert  pathway,  yours  or  mine. 
Forward,  till  you  see  the  highest  Human  Nature  is  divine. 

Follow  Light,  and  do  the  Right — for  man  can  half  control  his 

doom — 
Till  you  find  the  deathless  Angel  seated  in  the  vacant  tomb. 

Forward,  let  the  stormy  moment  fly,  and  mingle  with  the  Past. 
I  that  loathed,  have  come  to  love  him.     Love  will  conquer  at 
the  last. 


Gone  at  eighty,  mine  own  age,  and  I  and  you  will  bear  the  pall ; 
Then  I  leave  thee  Lord  and  Master,  latest  Lord  of  Locksley 
Hall. 


DUET  FROM  BECKET. 


First  Voice :  Is  it  the  wind  of  the  dawn  that  I  hear  in  the  pine 

overhead  ? 
Second  Voice :  No  ;  but  the  voice  of  the  deep  as  it  hollows  the 

cliffs  of  the  land. 
First  Voice :  Is  there  a  voice  coming  up  with  the  voice  of  the 

deep  from  the  strand, 
One  coming  up  with  a  song  in  the  flush  of  the  glimmering 

red  ? 
Second  Voice :  Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming  up  with 

.  the  sun  from  the  sea. 
First  Voice :  Love  that  can  shape  or  can  shatter  a  life  till  the 

life  shall  have  fled  ? 
Second  Voice :  Nay,  let  us  welcome  him,  Love  that  can  lift  up 

a  life  from  the  dead. 
First  Voice :  Keep  him  away  from  the  lone  little  isle.     Let  us 

be,  let  us  be. 
Second  Voice :  Nay,  let  him  make  it  his  own,  let  him  reign  in 

it — he,  it  is  he, 
Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming  up  with  the  sun  from 

the  sea. 


448  mtteb  Genngsom 


MARJORY'S  SONG  FROM  BECKET. 

Babble  in  bower 

Under  the  rose ! 
Bee  mustn't  buzz, 

Whoop — but  he  knows. 


Kiss  me,  little  one, 

Nobody  near ! 
Grasshopper,  grasshopper, 

Whoop — you  can  hear. 


Kiss  in  the  bower, 
Tit  on  the  tree  ! 

Bird  mustn't  tell, 
Whoop — he  can  see. 


ROSAMUND'S  SONG  FROM  BECKET. 

Rainbow,  stay, 
Gleam  upon  gloom, 
Bright  as  my  dream, 
Rainbow,  stay ! 
But  it  passes  away, 
Gloom  upon  gleam, 
Dark  as  my  doom — 
O  rainbow,  stay. 


SONGS  FROM  THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


The  tower  lay  still  in  the  low  sunlight, 
The  hen  cluckt  late  by  the  white  farm  gate, 
The  maid  to  her  dairy  came  in  from  the  cow, 
The  stock-dove  coo'd  at  the  fall  of  night, 
The  blossom  had  open'd  on  every  bough ; 
O  joy  for  the  promise  of  May,  of  May, 
O  joy  for  the  promise  of  May. 


'^m^mp0^m§m::^':- 


*-:^:y 


1  FAIR  SPRING  SLIDES  HITHER  O'ER  THE  SOU  THERN  SEA.. 

— Page  449. 


Blfrefc  Genn£6on.  449 

ii. 

O  happy  lark,  that  warblest  high 

Above  thy  lowly  nest, 
O  brook,  that  brawlest  merrily  by 

Thro'  fields  that  once  were  blest, 
O  tower  spiring  to  the  sky, 

O  graves  in  daisies  drest, 
O  Love  and  Life,  how  weary  am  I, 

And  how  I  long  for  rest ! 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  SPRING. 


The  groundflame  of  the  crocus  breaks  the  mould, 

Fair  Spring  slides  hither  o'er  the  Southern  sea, 
Wavers  on  her  thin  stem  the  snowdrop  cold 

That  trembles  not  to  kisses  of  the  bee : 
Come  Spring,  for  now  from  all  the  dripping  eaves 

The  spear  of  ice  has  wept  itself  away, 
And  hour  by  hour  unfolding  woodbine  leaves 

O'er  his  uncertain  shadow  droops  the  day. 
She  comes  !     The  loosen'd  rivulets  run  ; 

The  frost-bead  melts  upon  her  golden  hair ; 
Her  mantle,  slowly  greening  in  the  Sun, 

Now  wraps  her  close,  now  arching  leaves  her  bare 

To  breaths  of  balmier  air ; 


II. 

Up  leaps  the  lark,  gone  wild  to  welcome  her, 

About  her  glance  the  tits,  and  shriek  the  jays, 
Before  her  skims  the  jubilant  woodpecker, 

The  linnet's  bosom  blushes  at  her  gaze, 
While  round  her  brows  a  woodland  culver  flits, 

Watching  her  large  light  eyes  and  gracious  looks, 
And  in  her  open  palm  a  halcyon  sits 

Patient — the  secret  splendour  of  the  brooks. 
Come  Spring  !     She  comes  on  waste  and  wood, 

On  farm  and  field  :  but  enter  also  here, 
Diffuse  thyself  at  will  thro'  all  my  blood, 

And,  tho'  thy  violet  sicken  into  sere, 

Lodge  with  me  all  the  year ! 


45°  BlfreD  Genngson. 

in. 

Once  more  a  downy  drift  against  the  brakes, 

Self-darken'd  in  the  sky,  descending  slow ! 
But  gladly  see  I  thro'  the  wavering  flakes 

Yon  blanching  apricot  like  snow  in  snow. 
These  will  thine  eyes  not  brook  in  forest-paths, 

On  their  perpetual  pine,  nor  round  the  beech ; 
They  fuse  themselves  to  little  spicy  baths, 

Solved  in  the  tender  blushes  of  the  peach  ; 
They  lose  themselves  and  die 

On  that  new  life  that  gems  the  hawthorn  line ; 
Thy  gay  lent-lilies  wave  and  put  them  by, 

And  out  once  more  in  varnish'd  glory  shine   - 

Thy  stars  of  celandine. 

IV. 

She  floats  across  the  hamlet.     Heaven  lours, 

But  in  the  tearful  splendour  of  her  smiles 
I  see  the  slowly-thickening  chestnut  towers 

Fill  out  the  spaces  by  the  barren  tiles. 
Now  past  her  feet  the  swallow  circling  flies, 

A  clamorous  cuckoo  stoops  to  meet  her  hand ; 
Her  light  makes  rainbows  in  my  closing  eyes, 

I  hear  a  charm  of  song  thro'  all  the  land. 
Come,  Spring !     She  comes,  and  Earth  is  glad 

To  roll  her  North  below  thy  deepening  dome, 
But  ere  thy  maiden  birk  be  wholly  clad, 

And  these  low  bushes  dip  their  twigs  in  foam, 

Make  all  true  hearths  thy  home. 

v. 

Across  my  garden  !  and  the  thicket  stirs, 

The  fountain  pulses  high  in  sunnier  jets, 
The  blackcap  warbles,  and  the  turtle  purrs, 

The  starling  claps  his  tiny  castanets. 
Still  round  her  forehead  wheels  the  woodland  dove, 

And  scatters  on  her  throat  the  sparks  of  dew, 
The  kingcup  fills  her  footprint,  and  above 

Broaden  the  glowing  isles  of  vernal  blue. 
Hail  ample  presence  of  a  Queen, 

Bountiful,  beautiful,  apparell'd  gay, 
Whose  mantle,  every  shade  of  glancing  green, 

Flies  back  in  fragrant  breezes  to  display 

A  tunic  white  as  May  ! 


Bit reD  XLennveon.  45 T 


She  whispers,  "  From  the  South  I  bring  you  balm, 

For  on  a  tropic  mountain  was  I  born, 
While  some  dark  dweller  by  the  coco-palm 

Watch'd  my  far  meadow  zoned  with  airy  morn; 
From  under  rose  a  muffled  moan  of  floods ; 

I  sat  beneath  a  solitude  of  snow  ; 
There  no  one  came,  the  turf  was  fresh,  the  woods 

Plunged  gulf  on  gulf  thro'  all  their  vales  below. 
I  saw  beyond  their  silent  tops 

The  steaming  marshes  of  the  scarlet  cranes, 
The  slant  seas  leaning  on  the  mangrove  copse, 

And  summer  basking  in  the  sultry  plains 

About  a  land  of  canes ; 

VII. 

"  Then  from  my  vapour-girdle  soaring  forth 

I  scaled  the  buoyant  highway  of  the  birds, 
And  drank  the  dews  and  drizzle  of  the  North, 

That  I  might  mix  with  men,  and  hear  their  words 
On  pathway'd  plains  ;  for — while  my  hand  exults 

Within  the  bloodless  heart  of  lowly  flowers 
To  work  old  laws  of  Love  to  fresh  results, 

Thro'  manifold  effect  of  simple  powers — 
I  too  would  teach  the  man 

Beyond  the  darker  hour  to  see  the  bright, 
That  his  fresh  life  may  close  as  it  began, 

The  still-fulfilling  promise  of  a  light 

Narrowing  the  bounds  of  night." 

VIII. 

So  wed  thee  with  my  soul,  that  I  may  mark 

The  coming  year's  great  good  and  varied  ills, 
And  new  developments,  whatever  spark 

Be  struck  from  out  the  clash  of  warring  wills  ; 
Or  whether,  since  our  nature  cannot  rest, 

The  smoke  of  war's  volcano  burst  again 
From  hoary  deeps  that  belt  the  changeful  West, 

Old  Empires,  dwellings  of  the  kings  of  men  ; 
Or  should  those  fail,  that  hold  the  helm, 

While  the  long  day  of  knowledge  grows  and  warms, 
And  in  the  heart  of  this  most  ancient  realm 

A  hateful  voice  be  utter'd,  and  alarms 

Sounding  "  To  arms !  to  arms  !  " 


45  2  BltreD  GenrtEsom 

IX. 

A  simpler,  saner  lesson  might  he  learn 

Who  reads  thy  gradual  process,  Holy  Spring. 
Thy  leaves  possess  the  season  in  their  turn, 

And  in  their  time  thy  warblers  rise  on  wing. 
How  surely  glidest  thou  from  March  to  May, 

And  changest,  breathing  it,  the  sullen  wind, 
Thy  scope  of  operation,  day  by  day, 

Larger  and  fuller,  like  the  human  mind  ! 
Thy  warmths  from  bud  to  bud 

Accomplish  that  blind  model  in  the  seed, 
And  men  have  hopes,  which  race  the  restless  blood 

That  after  many  changes  may  succeed 

Life,  which  is  Life  indeed. 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM. 


0  young  Mariner, 
You  from  the  haven 
Under  the  sea-cliff, 
You  that  are  watching 
The  gray  Magician 
With  eyes  of  wonder, 

1  am  Merlin, 
And  /  am  dying, 
/am  Merlin 

Who  follow  The  Gleam. 

II. 

Mighty  the  Wizard 
Who  found  me  at  sunrise 
Sleeping,  and  woke  me 
And  learn 'd  me  Magic! 
Great  the  Master, 
And  sweet  the  Magic, 
When  over  the  valley, 
In  early  summers, 
Over  the  mountain, 
On  human  faces, 
And  all  around  me, 
Moving  to  melody, 
Floated  The  Gleam. 


BlfreD  Genngson.  453 

in. 

Once  at  the  croak  of  a  Raven  who  crost  it, 

A  barbarous  people, 

Blind  to  the  magic, 

And  deaf  to  the  melody, 

Snarl'd  at  and  cursed  me. 

A  demon  vext  me, 

The  light  retreated, 

The  landskip  darken'd, 

The  melody  deaden 'd, 

The  Master  whisper'd 

44  Follow  The  Gleam," 

IV. 

Then  to  the  melody, 

Over  a  wilderness 

Gliding,  and  glancing  at 

Elf  of  the  woodland, 

Gnome  of  the  cavern, 

Griffin  and  Giant, 

And  dancing  of  fairies 

In  desolate  hollows, 

And  wraiths  of  the  mountain, 

And  rolling  of  dragons 

By  warble  of  water, 

Or  cataract  music 

Of  falling  torrents, 

Flitted  The  Gleam. 


v. 

Down  from  the  mountain 

And  over  the  level, 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 

Silent  river, 

Silvery  willow, 

Pasture  and  ploughland, 

Innocent  maidens, 

Garrulous  children, 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner, 

And  rough-ruddy  faces 

Of  lowly  labour, 

Slided  The  Gleam — 


454  Bltrefc  GemtE6on. 


VI. 


Then,  with  a  melody 
Stronger  and  statelier, 
Led  me  at  length 
To  the  city  and  palace 
Of  Arthur  the  king  ; 
Touch 'd  at  the  golden 
Cross  of  the  churches, 
Flash'd  on  the  Tournament, 
Flicker'd  and  bicker'd 
From  helmet  to  helmet, 
And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  The  Gleam. 

VII. 

Clouds  and  darkness 

Closed  upon  Camelot ; 

Arthur  had  vanish'd 

I  knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me, 

And  cannot  die ; 

For  out  of  the  darkness 

Silent  and  slowly 

The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  a  wintry 

glimmer 
On  icy  fallow 
And  faded  forest, 
Drew  to  the  valley 
Named  of  the  shadow, 
And  slowly  brightening 
Out  of  the  glimmer, 
And  slowly  moving  again  to  a  melody 
Yearningly  tender, 
Fell  on  the  shadow, 
No  longer  a  shadow, 
But  clothed  with  The  Gleam. 

VIII. 

And  broader  and  brighter 
The  Gleam  flying  onward, 
Wed  to  the  melody, 
Sang  thro'  the  world ; 
And  slower  and  fainter, 
Old  and  weary, 


Blfre£>  aenngson.  455 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city, 

That  under  the  Crosses 

The  dead  man's  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock, 

Would  break  into  blossom ; 

And  so  to  the  land's 

Last  limit  I  came — 

And  can  no  longer, 

But  die  rejoicing, 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 

Hovers  The  Gleam. 

IX. 

Not  of  the  sunlight/ 
Not  of  the  moonlight, 
Not  of  the  starlight ! 
O  young  Mariner, 
Down  to  the  haven, 
Call  your  companions, 
Launch  your  vessel, 
And  crowd  your  canvas, 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin, 
After  it,  follow  it, 
Follow  The  Gleam. 


PARNASSUS. 

Exegi  monumentum   .   .    . 
Quod  non    .    .    . 
Possit  diruere    .  .    . 

.    .    .    innumerabilis 
Annorum  series  et  fuga  temporum. — Horace. 

I. 


What  be  those  crown'd  forms  high  over  the  sacred  fountain  ? 
Bards,  that  the  mighty  Muses  have  raised  to  the  heights  of  the 

mountain, 
And  over  the  flight  of  the  Ages !     O  Goddesses,  help  me  up 

thither  ! 


456  Blfret)  Genngeon. 

Lightning  may  shrivel  the  laurel  of  Cassar,  but  mine  would  not 
wither. 

Steep  is  the  mountain,  but  you,  you  will  help  me  to  overcome  it, 

And  stand  with  my  head  in  the  zenith,  and  roll  my  voice  from 
the  summit, 

Sounding  for  ever  and  ever  thro'  Earth  and  her  listening 
nations, 

And  mixt  with  the  great  Sphere-music  of  stars  and  of  constel- 
lations. 


What  be  those  two  shapes  high  over  the  sacred  fountain, 

Taller  than  all  the  Muses,  and  huger  than  all  the  mountain  ? 

On  those  two  known  peaks  they  stand  ever  spreading  and 
heightening ; 

Poet,  that  evergreen  laurel  is  blasted  by  more  than  lightning! 

Look,  in  their  deep  double  shadow  the  crown 'd  ones  all  disap- 
pearing ! 

Sing  like  a  bird  and  be  happy,  nor  hope  for  a  deathless  hearing! 

"  Sounding  for  ever  and  ever?  "  pass  on  !  the  sight  confuses — 

These  are  Astronomy  and  Geology,  terrible  Muses  ! 


HI. 

If  the  lips  were  touch'd  with  fire  from  off  a  pure  Pierian  altar, 
Tho'  their  music  here  be  mortal  need  the  singer  greatly  care? 
Other  songs  for  other  worlds !   the  fire  within  him  would  not 

falter ; 
Let  the  golden  Iliad  vanish,  Homer  here  is  Homer  there. 


FAR— FAR-AWAY. 

(FOR  MUSIC.) 

What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields  he  knew 
As  where  earth's  green  stole  into  heaven's  own  hue, 

Far — far — away  ? 

What  sound  was  dearest  in  his  native  dells? 
The  mellow  lin-lan-lone  of  evening  bells 

Far — far — away. 

What  vague  world-whisper,  mystic  pain  or  joy, 
Thro'  those  three  words  would  haunt  him  when  a  boy, 

Far — far— away  ? 


2Ufrefc  Cenngsom  457 

A  whisper  from  his  dawn  of  life  ?  a  breath 
From  some  fair  dawn  beyond  the  doors  of  death 

Far — far — away  ? 

Far,  far,  how  far  ?  from  o'er  the  gates  of  Birth, 
The  faint  horizons,  all  the  bounds  of  earth, 

Far — far — away  ? 

What  charm  in  words,  a  charm  no  words  could  give  ? 
O  dying  words,  can  Music  make  you  live 

Far — far — away  ? 


BEAUTIFUL   CITY. 

Beautiful  city,  the  centre  and  crater  of  European  confusion, 
O  you  with  your  passionate  shriek  for  the  rights  of  an  equal 

humanity, 
How  often  your  Re-volution  has  proven  but  E-volution 
Roll'd  again  back  on  itself  in  the  tides  of  a  civic  insanity ! 


rl 


THE  ROSES  ON  THE  TERRACE. 

ROSE,  on  this  terrace  fifty  years  ago, 

When  I  was  in  my  June,  you  in  your  May, 
Two  words,  "  My  Rose,"  set  all  your  face  aglow, 

And  now  that  I  am  white,  and  you  are  gray, 
That  blush  of  fifty  years  ago,  my  dear, 

Blooms  in  the  Past,  but  close  to  me  to-day 
As  this  red  rose,  which  on  our  terrace  here 

Glows  in  the  blue  of  fifty  miles  away. 


TO  ONE  WHO  RAN  DOWN  THE  ENGLISH. 

You  make  our  faults  too  gross,  and  thence  maintain 
Our  darker  future.     May  your  fears  be  vain  ! 
At  times  the  small  black  fly  upon  the  pane 
May  seem  the  black  ox  of  the  distant  plain. 


THE  SNOWDROP. 

Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid, 
Ever  as  of  old  time, 
Solitary  firstling, 


45 8  BlfreO  GennE6om 

Coming  in  the  cold  time, 
Prophet  of  the  gay  time, 
Prophet  of  the  May  time, 
Prophet  of  the  roses, 
Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid  ! 


THE  THROSTLE. 

"  Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming. 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love  again," 

Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"  New,  new,  new,  new  !  "     Is  it  then  so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  ? 

"  Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young  again,1 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy  ! 
And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

"  Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year  !  " 

O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden  ! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear, 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 


THE  OAK. 

Live  thy  Life, 

Young  and  old, 
Like  yon  oak, 
Bright  in  spring, 
Living  gold ; 

Summer-rich 

Then  ;  and  then 
Autumn-changed, 
Soberer-hued 

Gold  again. 


•.*#/<■ 


\ 


"  COMING    IN   THE    COLD    TIME 
PROPHET   OF  THE   GAY   TIME." — Page  458. 


BlfreD  Genngson.  459 

All  his  leaves 

Fall'n  at  length, 
Look,  he  stands, 
Trunk  and  bough, 

Naked  strength. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

W.  G.   WARD. 

Farewell,  whose  like  on  earth  I  shall  not  find, 
Whose  Faith  and  Work  were  bells  of  full  accord, 

My  friend,  the  most  unworldly  of  mankind, 
Most  generous  of  all  Ultramontanes,  Ward, 

How  subtle  at  tierce  and  quart  of  mind  with  mind, 
How  loyal  in  the  following  of  thy  Lord  ! 


CROSSING  THE  BAR. 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark  ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


THE  END. 


U  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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